


Deadlines and Commitments

by hou_dini



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 212,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2023869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hou_dini/pseuds/hou_dini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel Agger is a painter going through the worst creative block of his life. Fernando Torres is a new writer who also happens to be the perfect muse. Steve Finnan is the dream boyfriend, but only on the outside. Steven Gerrard is an obsessed best friend. Xabi Alonso is Liverpool's finest editor and a very comprehensive husband who sometimes thinks he's married two guys instead of one. Martin Skrtel is the most fabulous bitch to have ever walked this Earth. Sergio Ramos has a real thing for freckles. This is their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I love you even when I hate you

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back? :D
> 
> I've been working on this story for a long time (since it was taken down, really). Some bits have been entirely erased, others entirely re-written, others merely retouched. There is also a new last chapter. It is mostly done, but I might still tinker with the new bits. I THINK it's better this way, but who knows... I might just go crazy and hate it all over again in a couple of weeks. So let me just have this up here again before I change my mind, yes?
> 
> As always, I should warn you that English is not my first language and even though I try very hard, mistakes are bound to happen. The story hasn't been beta'ed, so please forgive me for anything you might find.
> 
> I don't even know if anyone will bother reading this again, but if anyone does decide to go through it, feedback is much appreciated. Thanks. :)

_As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart. You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable._  
 **\- The Wizard of Oz**

 

 

Anyone who thinks artists, as a rule, lead amazing, exciting lives with twists and turns enough to provide narratives, surrounded by clever people with easy laughter and flutes of champagne a-plenty, clearly doesn’t know Daniel Agger.

Daniel would have a far less glamorous story to tell those people about what your ordinary artist’s life is really like.

His, in as many months as he can remember, can be summed as: sleep, eat (pork, preferably; never salad), smoke pot, curse, have sex, sleep again, start over. It’s a non-stop loop. And don’t get him wrong, not everything about it is bad. But it’s all routine, no twists or turns, just this single straight line that goes on forever. It takes the edge out of anything. 

He should be spending time at his studio, painting, selling his work, planning new exhibitions where he’d meet the easy-laughter people and drink champagne and explain all the hidden depths of his strokes while being showered by praises and awe, immerse in a sea of self-satisfaction. 

He should be, but he’s not.

It’s been months since he last put a brush upon a white canvas, to the point he’s not really sure whether he can still define himself as an artist at all. He’s considering using ‘lazy-ass pot-head’ to fill in the occupation blanks from now on. Artist is a very big word, one that comes with a lot of automatic assumptions and pre-constructed imageries and requisites that he’s not currently in position to fulfill. Proclaiming yourself as an artist is roughly the same as trying to be part of a very selective club that many claim to be a part of, but only a handful actually are, and making that claim for yourself only makes you look like an idiot in front of the real members. And the catch is: being part of the club is all about acceptance. If the real members don’t take you as one of their own, then you’re doomed to a life of failures and mediocrity. 

He can’ be a painter if he can’t paint, period. It’s like saying you’re a builder if you only build things in theory, or that you’re a secretary if you’re unemployed and not _secretarying_ for anyone.

An artist’s life should be customarily transcendental, and his isn’t. It’s as simple as that.

As he sits in front of the telly, skipping channels without really watching anything, feeling anxious and impatient for nothing in particular and everything in general, he hears a key turn in the doorknob.

Steve walks in balancing a bunch of paper bags in his arms, awkwardly trying to push the door open and then shut it closed with his foot. He looks at Daniel from behind the hem of the bags, covering half of his face, and the Dane can see a smile there even though he can’t see his mouth.

“Hey,” Steve says, amiably, as he always does, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah,” Daniel, replies, curtly.

“I thought you said you would -”

“I know what I said.”

What he said is that Steve shouldn’t wait up for him because he’d _probably_ spend the night at the studio, working. Needless to say that he never even made it to the studio. He barely made it away from that couch at all.

“Ah,” Steve gives him a wan smile. “It’s one-of-those-moods night.”

“I can’t work. What mood did you expect me to be in?” With a grunt, he turns off the TV. Three hundred fucking channels and not one good thing to watch.

“I wasn’t teasing you.”

He sighs, slumping back on the couch. “I know.”

The thing is, if Daniel looks at his life as a whole, it’s really not that bad. He lives in a very comfortable flat with his boyfriend, who’s a very successful lawyer and makes enough money for the two of them so that he doesn’t need to sell his paintings in order to provide for himself. Steve is very understanding about his situation and his general bad mood and never pressures him; quite the opposite. He lets Daniel free to do as he pleases, in his own terms and in his own time. Not to mention Steve is also the owner of a very mean set of bed skills. Daniel’s sex life is great; there are absolutely no complaints to be made on that department either.

He can see how things could be a lot worse for him. But when he thinks about how he can’t, for the love of God, do what he’s supposed to be doing as an individual, as a mean of existence, his frustration becomes so great it blocks out everything else. Daniel can’t see himself as anything other than a painter. If he’s not one, then what’s the bloody point of him? He doesn’t want to just be someone’s boyfriend or someone’s friend. He doesn’t want to live off of Steve’s money, and he doesn’t want to feel like a fucking useless dickhead who grumbles his way through life and treats his very nice partner like crap just because he can’t _not_ act like an ass when he pretty much hates himself all the fucking time.

He’s got almost everything a person could want, but it doesn’t matter. That one thing he doesn’t have - anymore, anyway - takes the sparkle out of the rest. It’s kinda hard to keep it in mind that he’s supposed to be satisfied when he dedicates so much of his time to languishing in his own misery.

“This is just a phase, Dan,” Steve says, as he does every day he comes home to a sullen Dane. Daniel is not sure whether he still means it or if he’s just saying it because it’s sort of become a rehearsed speech by now. They follow a script; this is what Steve’s supposed to reply with when Daniel says something unpleasant. “It will go away.”

“Yeah, well. It’s taking its bloody time to go.”

“It happens to every artist.”

“I’m not sure an artist is still an artist if he can’t make fucking art.”

“Is that the newest logic you’ve come up with in your free time?”

“It’s obvious.”

“It’s bollocks, Daniel. Does an engineer stop being an engineer if he’s not _engineering_?”

“Is a teacher still a teacher if he’s not teaching anyone?” he counters, thinking he’s being really clever with this one.

Steve doesn’t seem to agree. “Of course. I don’t stop being a lawyer because I’m not lawyering. I went through years of college to learn how to do this, it’s not something that goes away with idleness. You know _how_ to paint, you just don’t know _what_ to paint. It’s a completely different thing.”

Dan opens his mouth to answer, but comes up with nothing and suppresses an itch of irritation instead. Sometimes he really hates it that Steve is a smart man. “Can we quit the fucking encouragement crap? Thank you.”

His boyfriend rolls his eyes at him. “Pardon me for trying to be supportive. What was I thinking?”

“Encouragement is not what I need right now.”

“What do you need, Daniel? Tell me.”

“I don’t know. If I knew I wouldn’t be like this, would I? What I _don’t_ need, however, is you telling me that this is just a phase and that it will pass, because you don’t know that. No one does. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Maybe it will never go away. I’ve been stuck for months now. Maybe I was having a phase when I was painting, and now I’m back to normal and my creativity will never come back.”

Steve doesn’t look at all impressed. “That’s certainly one way to look at it.”

“It’s the realistic way.”

“It’s as realistic as my encouraging crap way to see things. You don’t know any of that either, so you’re as right or as wrong as I am right now. The difference is that I’m trying to see it through the bright side, while you prefer to be pessimistic and defeatist, not to mention annoying. But if you’d rather keep your expectations down and lie about the flat sulking, then by all means. Whatever makes you happy, honey.” 

Steve keeps his tone civil and calm throughout the entire thing, as though he’s not even fazed that Daniel’s being an ass at all. Daniel thinks his way of putting his point across, without an inch of affection and remaining completely impassive while doing so, is absolutely irritating. It always makes him sound right and wise and knowledgeable, even when he’s not. But he reckons that’s what he gets for living with a lawyer. He already knew he’d never win an argument again in his life since they started going out seriously.

The Dane turns around on the couch to keep his eyes on Steve as he walks away, back to the kitchen, and starts going through the bags. “What would you have me do then?” he asks, since Steve knows so much about everything. “Being at the studio only makes me worse. Last time I was there it took me every fiber of my body not to destroy everything.”

“You love drama so much I don’t know why you haven’t invested in acting,” Steve comments, not even looking up at him. Dan flips him the middle finger, which he’s sure Steve notices, judging by the self-satisfied little grin dancing on the curve of his lips. “You need to get inspired, Dan,” he adds, matter-of-factly.

“Really, Einstein?”

Steve sighs. “I’m trying to be helpful, Daniel, and I really like to indulge you in your outbursts just to prove you wrong in the end, but I had a really exhausting day and if you’re going to be like that, then I’ll just shut up.”

The younger man leans his head against the couch header and takes a deep breath. This is the moment when it dawns on him just how much of a jerk he’s been to his partner so far. That moment is also part of their every-night script. He always ends up feeling bad for how he treats Steve at some point, in varying degrees of guilt.

He should be giving Steve a foot massage or a blow job or something for slaving away all day long in an office, surrounded by boring people with no sense of humor, wearing too many layers of clothing. Instead, he’s giving the man stick for being nice. You’d think he’d get a grip of himself sometime, but apparently not, as they keep dancing around the same issues every single night.

“I’m sick of feeling this way, Steve.”

“I know, honey. But belligerence is not really going to do anything for you.”

“And what will?”

Steve makes a pause. “Ok, I’m probably going to regret this, but - how about you get out of the house for a little while?”

“I do get out of the house.”

“I mean to do more than go to Nickla’s or Martin’s or whoever else you hang out with on your lazy afternoons.”

“And go where?”

“I’m a lawyer, what do I know? Wherever it is that artists go when they need to think. Museums, the park, the docks, some art gallery, for a walk around the city. Manchester, maybe, though I doubt that will be of much help.” He stops for another moment, and when he continues, it’s with a little hint of uncertainty, like he doesn’t really want to say it. “Go to a pub, have a drink or two, meet people.”

Daniel frowns, head still against the couch. “Are you telling me to go pick someone up?”

“Theoretically, sure. Why not? As long as you don’t end up sucking face with anyone.”

He finally lifts his face to give Steve a very confused look, squinting his eyes in suspicion. “Who are you?”

“I wish I could spend more time with you, Dan, but I can’t, and you end up being on your own most of the time. I’m not an expert, but I guess artists need to see people. Go to more places other than from their bedroom to their kitchen and back again. And anyway, you’re always home when I get here and I really love it that I end up getting to spend all my free time with you, but maybe I should just accept that I’m not the kind of company you need right now.”

Steve thinks he’s being cool, but Dan can see past his façade. It’s taking a lot for his boyfriend to be saying this, and he knows exactly just how much.

Daniel hasn’t always been a role model of a partner. Not that he is one now, but, in comparison, he’s become fucking Prince Charming. 

He was the one who chased after Steve in the beginning, who wouldn’t leave him alone until he decided to give a chance to the scruffy kid with a Mohawk and not a lot to offer other than good sex and a sharp tongue. Steve was an important man, older than him, smarter than him, who didn’t go to the same places he did and didn’t spend his days burning joints away in some equally fucked up 20-something immigrant’s living room. Steve was way out of his league, but when Daniel puts something in his head, it’s hard to get it out, and he started following the man around up and down the fucking city. He even gave the doorman of his building a blow job in exchange of strategic information, which has led to several awkward situations since he's moved to te building. And even after that it took him a lot of convincing and a lot of imagination to talk the man into giving it a shot. Steve made him sweat. 

But you could hardly tell that considering how many times Daniel spent shagging other people after they finally got together. It wasn’t until Steve asked him to move in with him - and made it clear that it was either that and behaving or they were over - that Daniel grew a conscience and figured he wasn’t getting a lot out of life by keeping the same lifestyle he had when he was 15. Steve was a real thing, a grown up thing. It was about time he started acting like one.

He still doesn’t act exactly like a proper adult, but he’s done some real progress.

Steve offers him stability, a good place to live, freedom to dedicate himself to art and a very loving relationship. They are very good friends, not just boyfriends. Living with Steve isn’t oppressive like it sometimes is when you’re accustomed to certain liberties and then finds yourself in a steady, monogamous relationship. Steve is cool, smart, not clingy or bossy and he makes Daniel very comfortable about almost everything (he doesn’t know Daniel still does the pot rounds at Nick’s, but what harm can a little marijuana do? What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?). All he asks in return is that Daniel keeps it in his pants. It sounds fair enough.

But even though he doesn’t seem to bother too much when Daniel hangs out with his friends - many of which he’s slept with several times, some after he and Steve started going out - or when Dan finally does decide to go to some party or other, the suggestion or the incentive never comes out of his mouth, unless they’re going together. Daniel knows Steve doesn’t fully trust him, even if it’s been years since the last time he was cheated on. But then he doesn’t have how to know that for sure, does he? Sometimes Daniel thinks Steve deliberately chooses to believe when he says he hasn’t been with anyone else just for the sake of avoiding a fight, not because he actually does trust his words. Whether he believes it or not, he hasn’t been cheated on in a very long time, it’s a fact.

Regardless of that, Daniel understands Steve has every reason to doubt him, so he doesn’t dare protesting or demanding a little bit more faith. Not yet, anyway. But for Steve to be actually telling him he should go out… Well, he must be a lot worse than he imagined.

“Is my boyfriend really telling me he thinks he’s not the kind of company I need?” he asks, teasingly, just to test whether Steve really means what he said or if he’ll take it back.

“You know exactly what your boyfriend means.”

“I really don’t. Are you trying to break up with me?”

Steve gives him a quick, pointed glare, and begins to set the things he took out of his bags on plates. “Don’t be daft, Daniel.”

“Now you’re being offensive.”

“I don’t want you to meet other people as in _snog_ or _shag_ someone. I’m not giving you a free card to go wild, I’m just saying - go sulk outside instead of in here.”

“So you’re not going to mind if I start going out again?”

“Didn’t say that either.”

“Then why are you encouraging me?”

Steve exhales loudly. “Because I love you, Daniel, and love lifts us up where we belong.”

Dan makes a face and pretends to stick his fingers in his throat. “Fuck off.”

“Love makes us act like we are fools!” Steve continues, in a singing tune.

“That’s it,” the Dane says, turning around and sitting back down on the couch. “I’m breaking up with you. I can put up with a lot of things, but not bad taste for music. You’re embarrassing yourself, Steve.”

He hears Steve’s rich laughter as it fills the apartment amidst the sounds of cutlery clinking. Daniel always thought Steve had a good laughter, the kind that makes you want to join in and smile even if you don’t know what he’s laughing about, or to say funny things that make no sense whatsoever just to hear his merry-eyed laughter. It strikes a chord inside of him, somehow, and makes him a tiny, little less bitter than he was a minute ago. But Steve's laughter are growing scarce by the day, and Dan can't help but feel guilty upon the realization that he has a lot to do with that. 

“I’m doing it because I want to see you happy,” the other man continues as he approaches Dan with a tray in hand. “And because you’re starting to get on my nerves.”

Dan shakes his head at him in mock-disapproval. “I knew there was something else to it.”

“Can you blame me for wanting to get a ‘Good night, love. How was your day? Here, let me give you a kiss’ when I get home instead of a curse and a glower?”

Steve means it in the most lighthearted possible way, but there is no lie whatsoever in what he’s saying. That’s exactly the kind of treatment he’s been getting more often than not, and it makes Daniel feel a bit of a sting somewhere. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asks.

Steve just shrugs. “Then you’ll just come back home, grumpy like an old lady, and I’ll give you a kiss and a courtesy suck and make everything right with the world again.”

He tries to remain serious and keep his rebelling-against-the-world face on, but a grin breaks onto his face and a chuckle escapes his lips, and then Steve is smiling back at him, all satisfaction and accomplishment for moving the little dark clouds away, even if just for a second. He hates it when he’s supposed to be mad and introspective and Steve just comes in and messes with his head, reminding him that he’s not so miserable after all. It feels like he’s not taking his work crisis as seriously as he should, like he’s not suffering and getting to know the deepest depths of depression, as a proper artist would. He’ll never make it to the club with a partner like this. 

“What is that?” he asks, nodding towards the tray in Steve’s hand and changing the subject.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, as though he’d forgotten he was even carrying it. He places it down on the center table. “Dinner.”

Dan’s brow furrows upon inspecting the name on the napkins. “That’s my favorite restaurant.”

“Yup,” his boyfriend replies, proud of himself.

“You brought me dinner from my fucking favorite restaurant,” Dan deadpans. 

“And it’s your favorite dish, too. The one with pork. Aren’t I a darling?”

“You are such a twat, Steve!”

Finns makes a confused grimace and tilts his head a little to the side. “Wait, no. I think there’s something wrong with what you just said.”

“You didn’t believe I was going to spend the night at the studio, did you?!” Daniel asks, accusingly. The fact he remembered to drop by his favorite restaurant, to pick up his favorite dish, is obviously a veiled act of betrayal as well as a clear demonstration of lack of faith in his resolutions. 

Steve merely rolls his eyes and sits down on the opposite armchair, crossing his arms. “I was hoping you would,” he explains, uninterestedly. “But on the odd chance that it would turn out exactly like on the last few times you told me you’d be working…” he trails off and leaves it at that.

“Asshole,” Dan huffs under his breath as he stretches over the table to pick up his dinner. It smells wonderful, as it always does. Daniel loves all kinds of meals with pork, but Steve is a refined man; this pork dish is not just any pork dish, it’s the best pork dish from the best restaurant in Liverpool. The one Daniel can’t afford to go to unless he’s with Steve. That Irishman is a dirty, low fucker.

“I get that all the time,” he says, still nonchalant, watching lazily as Dan stuffs his mouth with meat and tries his best not to look as thoroughly happy as he is for the meal. “I don’t know where do I keep getting that idea that I’m supposed to try to make you feel better. I think I’m watching too much television.”

Dan swallows down hard. “I’m supposed to be depressive here, Steve. I’d like you to respect that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to disrupt your depression. Please, do continue.”

“It is fucking hard to remember I’m unhappy when you go around being nice to me.”

Steve smiles at him again. “Look at that. That’s almost a compliment,” he says, bleeding irony. “I think I feel the tears coming.”

“I’m being serious here.”

“So am I. You showing appreciation for something I do these days is rather touching. Let me revel in my moment of small victory.”

Dan looks down at his plate, starts poking his food with his fork. “I’m being a cunt, aren’t I?” he asks after a moment, still not looking up.

“Pretty much.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s not your fault I’m like this. You’re the one good thing in my life right now, and it should be enough to make up for the rest, but I can’t appreciate it because I’m too fucked up and I end up lashing out on you.”

“Dan,” Steve says, softly, and waits until the Dane is staring back at him again. “You’re an artist,” he adds, simply, as if that alone justifies everything.

“I don’t think that gives me a license to be an ass.”

“It kind of does.”

“Why?”

“Because an artist’s head doesn’t work like everyone else’s. I understand about laws and paperwork and contracts and oratory, not about the frustrations of the soul. Artists are very afflicted people. I saw that on a History Channel documentary.”

He really wants to laugh again - the way Steve can say the stupidest things in the world and sound very serious while doing so makes almost everything he states hilarious, to the point Daniel feels a little awkward that the lawyer is the funny person in their household, but he doesn’t care so much, since he’s laughing even when he’s got reasons to be crying - but this time he manages to keep a straight face and not give him the pleasure.

“Stop being good to me, Steve,” he says instead. “Tell me to fuck off and get a life.”

“Can’t do it. Don’t know how to. And you already have a life, you just spend an unnecessary amount of time hating it.”

“You’re gonna get fed up with me.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“I love you.” It comes out almost like a curse, slightly infuriated, slightly resigned. Well, fuck, he loves his stupid boyfriend. How can anyone not love a boyfriend like this? It’s like he doesn’t even have a choice.

Steve smiles shortly, but there’s a bright sparkle in his eyes, and that’s enough to appease Daniel for a little while. “I know,” the Irishman says. “Now eat your dinner. I need a shower.”

He stands up and is about to move away when Dan puts his plate down and jumps to his feet as well. “Hey,” he says, grabbing Steve by his wrist and pulling him back closer, into a half-hug. He wraps an arm around the other man’s waist, while his other hand holds his chin. “Good night, love,” he starts, half-smirking, and plants a kiss on the other man’s lips. “How was your day?”

Steve puts both his arms around Dan’s neck. “It just got better.”

x-x-x

The atmosphere in that room is oppressive. There's really no other word to describe it.

Fernando has never felt smaller in his entire life. He's like this tiny, little mouse, fidgeting in his tiny, little chair in the middle of a room where everything is at least three times bigger than he is and possibly trying to eat him alive. Especially Xabi. Xabi is like this gigantic monster-person sitting in his iron throne and looking down at the tiny, little mouse as he weights the options on the quickest ways to crush him.

Well, that might be a little too harsh on Xabi. He's not really a monster and he's not being deliberately unpleasant either. Fernando doesn't know him very well, but he seems like a genuinely nice person. Xabi looks serious and professional and classy, but there's something sweet about him. The way he smiles, maybe. It’s warm and sympathetic rather than arrogant, even though he's clearly wearing clothes that cost more than what Fernando's made in the last three months of his life combined. 

Still, Xabi is probably, at least, an ok person. He's just being unbearably quiet, which is frankly driving Fernando mad.

The whole problem here lies in those five pages Xabi has in his hands right now. Those five pages are Fernando's entire life. It's his dreams and his future and everything he's ever worked for. Fernando may or may not be having a tiny stroke. 

Nobody ever said it would be this hard to sit in front of such a prestigious editor and _wait_. The hardest part, they said, is over: he's accepted to see you, he said yes to this meeting, he wanted to get to know you, asked you to e-mail some of your previous writings to him. He invited you over to bloody Liverpool, for fuck's sake. You're already on his radar. After that, it's easy-peasy. 

Well, fuck that.

Those are being, without a doubt, the hardest and longest minutes of Fernando's life. He's torn between wanting Xabi to be over already and wishing he could go on reading and not saying anything forever because whatever he does say once he's done will define the rest of Fernando's life and there's a very large chance it will also break his heart.  
Fernando might walk out of this office feeling disgraced and suicidal. In comparison, being fidgety and sick to the stomach is not so bad.

Fernando's putting a huge effort into not being as apparently pathetic as he feels, but he reckons that just might be beyond his control at this point. He's sweating like a pig in a slaughterhouse, there are strands of hair gluing to his forehead and he probably looks generally like some freckled cousin of Casper by now. Maybe not dead yet, but pretty close.

If you were a famous book editor, with hundreds of promising writers _begging_ for a chance to show you a project, would you hire someone who looks as though he's growing an aneurysm in front of you?

Probably not.

_Oh, God..._

Xabi has these concentration wrinkles on his forehead. Or at least Fernando thinks they’re concentration wrinkles. It might be judgmental wrinkles. Or I-hate-this-book wrinkles (it could also be Oh-my-God-this-is-so-good wrinkles, although Fernando's never heard of anyone who got their forehead wrinkled for a good reason, so that’s just wishful thinking). Every now and again, he thinks he sees a little twitch on the corner of Xabi's lips, but it's hard to tell whether those are tiny smiles or curves of distaste. He could either be completely enthralled on the reading or wondering just why exactly he decided to waste his precious time with this new writer no one's ever heard of in the first place. Fernando's gut feeling bends alarmingly towards the latter.

An immense sadness descends upon him as he realizes just how much this moment means to him. He can feel the love he has for writing down to his bones. He's been doing it since he was a kid, and since he was a kid he cannot think of ever being happy doing anything else. But it's such a cruel calling. It’s not like when you’re a teacher or a lawyer and you get fired or you don’t get that position you covet so fiercely but there are other million places you can be working at and other million chances you might get of making it. 

Becoming a professional, published author depends more on yourself than on anyone else. Being at the right place, at the right time - like right here, in front of one Xabier Alonso - is important. But nothing speaks louder than your talent. And sometimes - most times, actually - you only ever get one shot of convincing the right person that you are worthy of their time and investment. 

This might just be Fernando’s last chance of ever making it. That realization is not being very helpful, though; on the contraire, it sets up a quake at the pit of stomach and leaves him edging on tears.

He wonders what his life will be like if he leaves this office with a negative answer. Everything will change. Nobody is ever going to give another shot to a guy who's been turned down by Xabi Alonso. That's the same as having 'NOT WORTH IT' stamped on your head. Fernando'll have to go back to Spain with his pride in shatters and work as a sales person or a cashier or something. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s just not what he wants for his life. 

It's not about the money. It was never about the money for him. It's about doing what he loves and having the means to support himself so that he won't need to live a miserable life doing something else to keep from starving to death.

So that's really what's at stake here: being happy or being miserable. Forever. 

After excruciating minutes, Xabi puts down the last page. Fernando sucks the air in so quickly he almost chokes. Xabi takes a sip from his coffee mug and meets Fernando's eyes, a calm smile gracing his handsome features. Fernando thinks he's smiling back, but, judging by the look Xabi gives him, he's probably making a weird grimace and showing too much teeth.

"Are you ok?" Xabi asks.

"Yes, of course," he replies, his voice pitching awkwardly. 

"Do you want some water?"

Fernando shakes his head and politely declines it. His throat feels so tight he doubts he can push anything down. And even if he could, it'll hardly stay there.

"Well," Xabi starts, flipping through the pages. Fernando holds backs a whimper. "I think you have a very promising story here." He can sense the 'but' hanging in the air. "There are some bits I have some issues with, of course." _Of course_. "Some of your plot lines might be particularly hard to develop the way you're planning to do. I think you need to focus a bit more on the characters and less on the situation around them. I really like your characters, I think they could really be the heart of this story if you just work them well."

Fernando visibly deflates. One sentence about how the story is 'promising' and then a million others listing issues he's managed to find within five little pages. He gathers this is probably why Xabi is such a renowned professional in the publishing industry. Fernando read in a magazine that eight of the last books he's worked on have made it to the Top 10 best-selling lists at some point. The other two were in the Top 20. The man is a Midas of the book market. But knowing that doesn't make it any less heartwrenching to hear him tearing his ideas apart. Actually, it mike just make it worse.

"Your ending -"

"Sucks," Fernando speaks lowly under his breath. He's not even aware that he's said it out-loud until Xabi looks up at him with arched eyebrows.

"You think your ending sucks?"

"No, I - I don't - I didn't... Nevermind me."

"I was actually going to say it's really smart."

Fernando stops, blinking rapidly. "You were?"

"Yes. It's brilliant, really. It makes perfect sense and wraps up the story very well, but it is in no way predictable. I understand this is just a first draft of a project and there are obviously several things about your story you haven't listed here, some of which you might not even be aware of yet. Stories have a tendency of escaping us to write themselves out more often than not. Doesn't matter how hard you try to outline something, there are moments when it just refuses to go where you want it to. It's always a journey, writing a book. This one of yours seems like a promising one." 

Xabi ends his analytical speech with a smile, another one that Fernando can't interpret for the love of fuck. His heart is beating like it's about to take off and he can't take any more of this... this _torture_. 

"For the love of God, just tell me what you're gonna do 'cause I may be having a stroke and I think I need a hospital."

Xabi becomes serious all of a sudden. "Are you - do you need me to call an ambulance?" he asks, hands already reaching for his phone.

"No, I just need you to tell what you think of my book."

Xabi stops. "I just did. I liked it."

"No, you didn't say you like it, you said it was _promising_ , it's not the same thing." Fernando realizes he's babbling and his words are coming falling over one another, tumbling, and his voice is a whole lot harsher than he means it to, and it's possible - or _likely_ \- that Xabi is thinking he's an idiot. "I meant that as a question," he adds, trying to make it sound less like he was criticizing Xabi's way of addressing his work and more like he wants to bathe in his endless pond of wisdom, whatever that means.

Xabi watches him studiously for a moment, and then, after a beat, he asks, "How long have you been in Liverpool?"

"Uh... Two weeks?"

"And how has it been for you so far?"

Fernando blinks slowly at Xabi. He's not sure where he's trying to go with this, but... "Okay. I guess. I haven't really done anything. I've been working crazy hours on that book."

"Maybe that's the problem."

"... what?"

"You look like you need to relax a bit."

"Oh," is all Fernando says. He doesn't know what else to say. All he's cared about since the opportunity to have this meeting with Xabi came up is the book. He rented a small flat for three weeks - because he absolutely hates hotels, they give him blocks - and barely set foot outside. He wouldn't know if they had a good weather or a terrible one this past week. However, he reckons that being told by someone that _you look like you need to relax_ can't be exactly a good thing. It probably means he looks much worse than he imagined. 

Should he be offended or something?

"Can I make you an indiscreet question?"

"... Ok."

"Are you sexually active?"

Well, that - what is that? Fernando can sense his cheeks flushing as he deadpans at Xabi, unsure of how to react. That sounds like a very inappropriate question to be made. It takes him a while to realize that he's supposed to say something and, even though part of him wants to answer 'How is that relevant to my work?', what he ends up saying is, "Uhm... yes?"

"Is that a question?"

"... no?"

"No?"

"I mean... No. Yes. I am sexually... active." He pauses. "It wasn't a question."

"Ah," xabi nods. "How long has it been since you last had an intimate encounter with someone?"

Okay, that has escalated pretty fast. "I... I'm not sure I'm very comfortable answering this question."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, it's just... Well, in my experience, sometimes you need to let yourself go a little bit, you know what I mean? Your book is obviously very important to you, as it should be, but you can't neglect yourself and your own needs. That shows on your writing. And on your interview as well. You look very uptight, almost like you want to run away screaming."

"Huh..." What is he supposed to answer to that, anyway? He _is_ very uptight. How is he not going to be? This is an incredibly uptight-fying situation. Somehow, though, he sees a point in what the other man's saying. He hasn't had a shag in almost three months now and the last one wasn't even that good. Fernando feels tense and wired and cranky almost all the time and it's just obviously not _just_ because he's not having sex, but Xabi is right. He needs to relax.

And to have sex.

"It's been a while," he admits, sheepishly. "I haven't been thinking about anything other than work lately."

"I figured."

"I'm sorry... I'm not usually this thick, it's just... I'm really nervous." 

"There's no need to apologize," Xabi replies. "I'm just saying - I've been where you are, I know that kind of pressure. So if I can give you any advice to help you cope with it, I think it's my duty to do so." He makes a pause. "As your editor, I mean."

Fernando grabs the sides of his chair with so much strength his knuckles turn white. "Wait... What did you just say?"

"I can help you with -"

"Not that part. The one about being my... Being my editor...?"

"Oh," Xabi smiles again. "If you're interested in working with me, of course."

"FUCK ME!" As soon as the words pass his lips, Fernando wants to snatch them back out of thin air. He covers his mouth with both his hands as his entire face begins to feel hot and flustered. "I'm so sorry," he says, hands still over his mouth so the sound is muffled. 

Xabi just laughs. "That's all right."

Fernando's head is spinning so fast he's dizzy. Is this seriously happening? Xabi's taking his book. That's... Well, quite probably the best day of his life. The best feeling he's ever had, the best thing he's ever heard, the best _everything_ of _everything_.

"I'm so happy," he says, when he finally manages to find his voice again. "I can't believe this. It's too good to be true. I, honestly, I didn't think you would take me."

"I just said, it looks very promising work and I'd love to guide you through it." 

"Oh my God... This means so much to me, I can't even - I don't think I'll ever be able to thank you enough."

"Please. Don't thank me, this is work. _Your work_. I'm just here to help out and make sure it's the best work you can do. Now, I'm _very_ demanding and I don't accept excuses for laziness. You're gonna have to work _hard_." Fernando nods his head like a maniac to everything Xabi says, filing it all away in a special corner of his mind. "You have mostly written short stories, which were absolutely fascinating, but there's a different between the dynamics of short stories and novels. My role here is to make sure you don't get that transition wrong."

"Yes. Sure. Of course. That's... right. Absolutely right."

Xabi twists his lips up into a wider smile. "It's also my duty to make sure you settle down well in Liverpool. So whatever you need, Fernando - and I mean _anything_ -, just ask."

Fernando opens his mouth to say 'Yes' for the billionth time, but then snaps it back shut as he recalls the bit of conversation about certain neglected needs. Maybe it's too soon to go into that with Xabi, but - well, he did make inappropriate questions about his sex life, didn't he? 

"I do have a question," he starts, shifting nervously in his seat.

"Shoot."

"It's about... Well, it's about... Places."

Xabi purses his lips, then nods his head. "Ok. I'm listening."

"Can you tell me where would be a good place to... meet people?" 

“Meet people as in….?”

Fernando has to move his eyes away to keep from gagging in his own embarrassment. "As in… _men_."

Xabi arches his eyebrows at him in surprise. "Men?" Fernando nods, almost imperceptibly, wishing he could take it back. "That's interesting!"  
"... is it?"

"Oh, I'm not mocking you, please," Xabi hurries to explain. "I'm not sure you know, but I'm married to a man."

As a matter of fact, he is aware. It's exactly why he's taken the liberty of making that question to Xabi. He wouldn't dare if he thought there was any chance he'd be judged. Fernando's a private person who'd rather keep his life to himself, but moving to a new place, a city where he can barely understand what people say (why do Scousers sound like they're barking?), where he doesn't really know anyone... It's nice to have _someone_ to ask that sort of thing to. 

"Here," Xaby says, scribbling something down on a piece of paper and passing it on to him. 

"Mercy?" Fernando reads the name on the paper.

"Biggest gay club in Liverpool. They have a wonderful bar too. There are lots of foreigners, if the English are not your type. I should warn you, though," Xabi says, in a gossipy manner. "It's _that_ type of gay club, so there are very explicit things. Not that everyone who goes there is into that sort of thing, but you'll inevitably run into people with very little inhibitions. If you're the easily impressed type, I could point you out towards other more vanilla spots."

 _Vanilla_. Xabi thinks he's _vanilla_. Why do people always take him for some sweet mama boy? It’s the thing with the freckles, probably. He’s 25 and still got called _el niño_ by basically everyone back in Madrid.

Well, fuck that. He’s not easily impressed, he’s not a prude and he is definitely not _vanilla_.

"I'm fine with explicit," Fernando assures him.

"Then I think you'll find just what you need there." Xabi punctuates his sentence with a wink.

He leaves the office after thanking Xabi 598 times and shaking his hand for an awkwardly long time. They agree to meet again in a few days to discuss the terms of their deal - "But I don't want you to think about the book for at least a week. You should take some time off, relax, have lots of sex..." - and for some reason it's a lot like hearing your mom telling you that you need to get laid. It’s not a good sign and goddamnit, he’s got to sort that out.

Once he’s out in the street, rain falling over his head, cold wind blowing, he feels like a new man. Fernando's kind of at embarrassing levels of excitement about this. He wants to dance with the lamp posts and kiss the barista at the café he stops by and talk to everyone in a sing-song tune as though he were in a musical. He can feel it at the pit of stomach and up through his chest, this overwhelming and confusing sense of disbelief and realization.

This is at the same time the last day of his life and the first day of his new life. Not even that god awful weather is going to wipe away that smile threatening to split his face into two.

He takes out the little paper Xabi's given him and reads out the address. 

_Mercy_.

He will celebrate his success by getting a thorough, proper fuck tonight.


	2. Bad Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for any mistakes you might find! The story hasn't been beta'ed.
> 
> As always, feedback is much appreciated. :)

“What were you saying, Danny?”

Daniel takes a long drag from his joint, lets the smoke linger in his mouth for a while before blowing it out, slowly, closing his eyes and slumping back against Nicklas’s battered, old couch.

He needs a moment to remember what they were talking about before he started smoking. “Ah. Right. Steve thinks I should get out of the flat more. Like, go to pubs and stuff.”

“Well, is this the fucking end of the world?” Martin interjects, in his very characteristic overly-dramatic way of putting absolutely everything. “Never thought I’d see the day Steve and I would agree on something. You _so_ need to get out of that dark flat, babe. That place is making you miserable.”

“My misery has nothing to do with the flat. The flat is fine. It’s work that’s a bitch.”

“And why do you think you can’t work, huh?” Martin arches his eyebrows at him. “I told you that sick relationship of yours would take its toll on you, but you didn’t believe me. Hate to say I told you so, but I did fucking tell you so.” Martin takes a long drag out of his own joint, blowing the smoke in Daniel’s direction while Nicklas watches with a goofy smile from the other couch, across the room.

This scene has been repeating itself at least twice a week for over five years. More, if you don’t count Martin, who they didn’t know until they moved to Liverpool. Nicklas and Daniel have been friends for nearly a decade. They met in Copenhagen, through some common acquaintances, while sharing a joint. Maybe that’s why they keep the tradition, even though the pot itself doesn’t really do much for them nowadays. Dan’s not sure, but he thinks they might have smoked so much it stopped being effective, or maybe their brains have become so familiar with stronger stuff that it simply doesn’t recognize the effects of marijuana anymore. Either way, it’s when they get together around Nicklas’s living room to smoke that they talk about life and work and their latest conquests - in his case, just Steve, much to Martin’s distress.

Martin is some crazy-ass fucker they picked up along the way. Daniel can’t even remember how they met. He assumes it was at some party or a club or something of that nature because are the only types of places anyone will ever see Martin hanging out at. All he knows is that one day this Slovakian with his shaved head and mischievous eyes started making their homes (especially Nicklas') mere extensions of his own, and then there was no stopping him anymore.

Martin’s by far the most insane one out of their happy bunch. They each have their fair share of craziness, but Martin is on a league all of his own. His life philosophies are not very creative - he believes in sex, drugs and gay night clubs, nothing else - but it is rather impressive the rate to which he’s willing to go for his beliefs - which, in his case, translates into doing literally anything for a very good fuck.

Daniel is pretty sure he was the first one to shag Martin, although they’ve all been to bed together at some point (all at once or in pairs). Maybe that’s why the Slovakian is so possessive about him, because he was the first. Not that Martin's in any ways a romantic person, but he must have some good memories of their earliest adventures together. It was fun, Daniel has to give him that. He's moved on from Martin's deranged way of life, though. Only Martin seems to have unyielding _issues_ with that.

For instance Martin absolutely despises Steve and everything he represents. He thinks Steve has ruined Daniel, made him soft and boring and unimaginative and tied up by the chains of an oppressive society that lives by the rules of the most abominable beings to have ever walked the earth (according to Martin): lawyers. 

It is truly astounding how riled up Martin gets the minute Steve is brought up in any given conversation. You'd think he would've gotten over it after four years. You'd think wrong.

“Your ability to speak bullshit really does amaze me, Martin,” Daniel says.

“Well, am I wrong? You stopped going out to parties, clubs and private gatherings -”

“Because all you do is get high and fuck.”

“ - which leads me to: you stopped getting high and fucking.”

“My sex life is very good, thank you very much.”

“I mean the good kind of fucking, Dagger, not mommy-and-daddy-under-the-sheets fucking.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means, how the fuck are you going to paint if you’re sleeping with that bitch next to you? You’re an artist, you need something to inspire you. And that old rag is clearly not it.”

Daniel takes a deep breath, looking down at the burning joint between his fingers, before bringing it up to his lips. “Next time you call my boyfriend a bitch, I swear to God I’ll fucking slap you, Martin.” Trying to remain calm next to Martin is an exercise to anyone's patience and self-control.

“Stop being such a cynic, Martin,” Nicklas finally intervenes. “You’d totally do Steve.”

“I would so not!” the Slovakian protests as if Nick has just offended his mother. Although he’d probably not mind that so much. Things that are offensive to Martin include critics to his sex skills, his dance skills and his style. Anything else is fair game by him.

“Yes, you would. And you’d brag about it afterwards, like you do with every up-scale guy you pick up.”

“Wow,” Martin says, eyes wide in mock-stun. “You have conveyed so much bullshit in one tiny little phrase I am in awe, Nicklas. Have you been practicing? Congratulations.”

“Bite me,” Nick says, looking back at Dan, who’s trying not to laugh. The core of this discussion is Steve, after all. He shouldn’t be finding it funny.

“I have, darling. But let’s put some things straight here, shall we? First of all: Steve? Not up-scale. Sorry, Dan.” Daniel flips him off, but Martin merely ignores him. “Second of all, he’s old, unattractive and suited. I’ve done my share of old and unattractive, but I refuse to go to bed with suited men. They bore the fuck out of me. This ridiculous suit fetish straight people have is the reason why this country - actually, why this entire _continent_ isn’t moving forward. I do not accept gay men who dig blokes in suits. I’ll have my blokes in underwear. Or less than that. Not with a bow tied around their necks like they're fucking kitties and a million layers covering their bodies. Those bitches were born to be straight but went astray by an unfortunate accident. They’re an embarrassment to the class.”

Nicklas throws his head back as he erupts into laughter, but Daniel takes the blow for Steve.

“You haven’t got a fucking clue about what Steve’s like in bed. You think I’d be with him for four years if he wasn’t any good? I stalked him after our first night, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“That’s what he bewitched you into thinking.”

Dan rolls his eyes at him. “As for being unattractive - you are in fucking need of a pair of glasses.”

“He’s not nearly as good looking as you are, Dagger,” Martin explains.

“No. He’s better.”

"Please, tell me you're being funny, Dagger."

“Since when have you become such a selective slut anyway?” Nick asks.

“I haven’t. But even non-selective sluts have principles,” he replies, very matter-of-factly. 

“Do you even know what that word means, Martin?”

“I didn’t know you had principles beyond not letting people come in your mouth,” Dan adds.

Martin lets out an annoyed grunt. “Ok, here we go again. First of all, that’s not one of my principles. Second of all, I don’t sleep with people who are a waste of my time,” he finishes with an affected smile.

“Please, Martin,” Nick starts. “You’ve slept with every single motherfucker in this town.”

“I haven’t done Steve, have I?”

“That’s because he’s too classy to fuck someone like you,” Dan states.

“He did you, didn’t he?”

“He was drunk when we fucked the first time. Then I just had to talk him into doing it again until he had enough time to figure out all my depths - something that you don’t have.”

“Oh, Dagger,” Martin grins pitifully at him and shakes his head. “You’ve been to my depths so many times. And you _liked_ it.”

Nicklas shrugs. “I’d do Steve.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! I’d very much appreciate it if you would just stop talking about doing my boyfriend - which, by the way, is something neither of you will ever do.”

Martin opens his arms in a ‘see?’ sort of motion. “My point exactly.”

“No, I mean, I like him,” Nick continues. “I think he’s all right. We’d probably never be pals, but he’s an ok bloke. He’s got a good job, makes good money, and takes good care of Danny. I’m over the part where I used to dislike him. Now I see he’s good for you. And that he’s absolutely right not to like your friends, we’re cunts. Well, Martin is, anyway. I suppose we have to accept that we’re gonna be judged by what he does if we continue to hang out with him.”

“ _Takes good care of Danny_ ,” Martin repeats in a little, whiny voice. “Can you even hear yourself? God, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

Daniel makes a disgusted face at Martin, but then turns back to his compatriot. “Thank you, Nick.”

Nick nods back at him. “Martin is just pissed because he never really got over the fact you stopped fucking him for Steve.”

“I stopped fucking him years ago, he’s had enough time to get over it.”

The Slovakian lets out a sardonic laughter. “I get high, but I don’t get stupid, baby. I remember Christmas -”

“Christmas doesn’t count,” Dan cuts him off, very emphatically.

“Why not?”

“Because I was drunk out of my mind. And it was _just_ a blow job.”

“A blow job counts, love. The right kind of blow job always counts.”

“It doesn’t, Martin. Shut up.”

“You know I’m right, but you refuse to admit it,” he continues. “This isn’t you. This prosaic, stay-at-home, don’t-do-drugs, don’t-get-drunk, sleep-with-a-monogamous-old-lawyer thing is not you. You struggle to fit into that façade because that’s what Steve wants you to do and that’s what you think you want, but if you really wanted it, then you wouldn’t struggle so much to begin with, would you?”

Dan shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “I refuse to take relationship advice from you, Martin. What the fuck do you even know about that?”

“Thank God, not much. I take no interest in that alternative lifestyle.”

“ _Alternative_ ,” Nick repeats, waggling his eyebrows at Dan.

Martin ignores him and forges on, shifting on the couch to stare straight at Daniel. “I understand enough to know that you wouldn’t jump over the fence every now and again and you would _definitely_ not keep crawling back into my bed if you were 100% satisfied with what you have. You wonder, Dagger, because you miss being a free bitch, and you know it. I represent the exact opposite of everything Steve stands for in your life - proudly so, I may add. I’m fabulous and inspiring while he’s boring and fucking miserable. It’s why you can’t paint anymore. He’s taken all the color away from your life.”

A frosty silence falls over them as Martin ends his rant. Daniel glowers at him, but the other man doesn’t even meet his eyes, taking another drag from his joint and keeping his chin up as though he’s full of reason when in reality he has nothing but crap.

“Jesus, Martin,” Nick says after a while. Martin just shrugs.

Daniel’s known that Slovakian long enough to understand exactly how his twisted mind works; he doesn’t mean half the things he says and haven’t got a fucking clue about the other half. And he knows exactly how Martin feels about him; he’d never want to be Daniel’s _boyfriend_ , but he hates it that he lost his favorite fuck to an abominable monogamous relationship. 

But even being fully aware of all this, something about his rant strikes Daniel like a thunder.

Martin probably spent a long time developing theories to prove to Dan that he should break up with Steve if he wants to be truly happy and complete again. But even knowing that, even being aware that this is nothing more than Martin’s Machiavellian, schemy mind powered on pot, Daniel can’t help but see some traces of a point in there. A very faint, very distant, very crooked point. But it’s there. And it makes his guts twist in anger.

“I have no idea why you weren't drowned in a bag as a child," he says, spitefully. "What the fuck has gone up your ass, you stupid cunt? How long has it been since you last had sex?”

“Eight hours.”

“Then it must have been really fucking awful for you to be so spiky. No wonder you can’t stand relationships. You know you’ll never get one because no one could ever bear to stick around, you pathetic twat.”

Martin sighs. “The truth hurts, Daniel.” 

“You know what else hurts? My fist on your fucking face. You can say whatever shit you want, I’m never going to fuck you again.”

“Fine by me, it’s not like I’m short of options. It’s your loss, not mine. Before you know it, you’re 35, wearing a tie for a living and spending your entire day stuck in an office. By the way, Nicklas, this joint really sucks. Where did you get this, your garden? Jesus. Remind me of never letting you in charge of the drugs again. I’m gonna go pour myself some alcohol.”

Daniel’s eyes burning holes on the bald back of Martin's head as he swaggers his way to the kitchen.

“Remind me again why we’re still friends with that asshole.”

“I wonder the same thing sometimes. I think we like him. Somewhere deep down.”

“He hasn’t been this unbearable since he thought he was positive and went two months without a shag.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s been a pain in the ass all month.”

“Did something new happen?”

“Maybe.”

Dan arches Nick an eyebrow. “Maybe?”

“Well,” Nick starts, taking one last, long drag from his joint. “There’s the thing with Simon.”

“What thing with Simon? Where _is_ Simon, by the way?”

“You really need to get out of that flat, Danny. This is old news.”

“Then stop stalling and tell me, damn it.”

An easy grin makes its way onto Nick’s face before he opens his mouth. “Simon and I are kinda together.”

“ _Kinda_ together?”

“Yeah, well… You know how we always had that on-and-off thing. Until one day, about a month ago, we woke up in bed together and realized that we hadn’t been shagging anyone else in months. So we decided to give it a shot at something serious.”

“No shit! Are you like, dating? For real?”

“Yup.”

“No wonder Martin is so bitchy! Shit! That’s great, Nick!” Daniel congratulates his friend, beaming.

Nick chuckles. “Thanks.”

Nicklas and Simon go a long way back. They met Simon in Liverpool, but became pretty close with him because they were all from the same place. Daniel was the one who spotted Simon and the first one to take interest, as it always happened with pretty things, and the first one to sleep with him as well, but since the very start, it was clear that he and Nick got on to something different. They spent a lot of time together - a lot of nights together as well. For a long time, Daniel thought they were just one more fuck away from making their thing official, but they never admitted to being in a relationship. 

Simon is the responsible, mentally sound one in the group. Has always been. He never did Martin, for instance, and never did coke with them either. Simon was the one who dragged them back home and put them in bed when they could barely stay on their feet. Daniel loves him very much for it, but kind of hates him as well sometimes, since he's always the one to give him stick for being a dick, which can be really annoying, however of utmost relevance. 

Daniel never understood the real importance of having a Simon in his life until he met Steve. Simon refused to sleep with him again when he started going out with Steve, and made sure to remind him he was being a fucking moron for cheating every time he did it. Steve would’ve probably suffered twice as much as he did if it wasn’t for Simon. Or worse, he would’ve simply broken up with Daniel, and now he’d be back to sleeping with Martin again. Back then, he probably wouldn't have thought that to be such a bad thing, but now he can see very clearly how sad it would be to still be sharing Martin's lunatic way of life.

Simon always claimed he’d never get in a relationship with Nicklas because he knew he wouldn’t go a night without worrying whether Nick was cheating on him or not - he got himself into a lot of heated arguments with Martin about the sanctity of commitments. And Daniel feels truly happy to know that they have finally decided to leave the old days behind and embrace the fact they have always loved each other. It’s another point for team relationship. Suck that, Martin.

“Where is he now?”

“Copenhagen.”

“What the fuck is he doing in Copenhagen?”

“His installation project is being shown there this week. He wanted me to go, but I have a regular-ish job now - this is another thing that’s new, by the way - so I had to stay. Martin almost had a fucking heart attack when he heard we were thinking about going to Denmark together.”

“What are you bitches talking about? I heard my name,” Martin asks as he waltzes back into the living room with a bourbon hands.

“Nick was just telling me about how you freaked out when you realized you’re the only one of us still alone and abandoned.”

“You mean about Simon?” he inquires, casually gulping from his glass. “Did he tell you they wanted to take vacations together? Jesus. You people embarrass me. I don’t know why in God’s name I’m still friends with you two.”

“That’s because you love us, Martin,” Nick says, with a gentle grin on his face. Martin gets on everybody’s nerves, but Nick’s patience with him stretches much further than anyone else’s. He finds the Slovakian’s ways hilarious. He is, really, but it gets old pretty fast, in Daniel’s opinion.

“That I do. But I have a reputation to look out for. What are people going to think if they see me hanging out with married couples?”

“That you grew some grey mass between your ears?” Dan suggests. “Or decency, perhaps?”

“Or that I’m brain dead. You Scandinavian people are all weirdos. You’re blessed with the good-looks and the swagger and you simply abdicate from using it. What world do you live in?”

Nick makes a little pout at Martin in mock-hurt. “You’re just upset you won’t get to have Danish threesomes anymore. You were deprived of Danny already, and now you’ve lost your chances with Simon and me as well.”

Martin snorts. “Please! Like I want to be squeezed between any of you three while you’re like that! I don’t want to catch that bug and die a slow and painful social death. I enjoy my life very much.”

“Well, I hate mine as of now,” Daniel adds, taking the subject back to its original point. Before Martin has a chance to turn it into another one of his crusades against Steve, though, he raises his palm in the air and shuts him up. “Don’t even start on Steve, Martin.”

“Fine,” he accepts, shaking his head in a very condescending way. “But let me do something for you, then. Since he’s allowed you to run free for a while.”

“You’re not going to give me head, Martin.”

“Dagger, please. I mean, let me take you out.”

“No fucking way.”

“Why not?!”

“You’re going to get me to a fucking orgy with a bunch of your crackhead pals and some shitty music.”

“Will not! Why would you think that?!”

“That’s your idea of fun.”

The Slovakian regards him for a moment, in silence, blue eyes slightly squinted. “Ok, that _could_ be fun. But it’s not what I have in mind.”

“Nicklas will take me out, won’t you Nicklas?” 

“Perfect!” the Slovakian interjects, slamming his glass down on the coffee table. “Let Nicklas take you out to have dinner under the moonlight and long walks on the beach, why don’t you? That’s surely going to help you with your block problem because it’s so different from what you’re getting at home every single fucking day.”

Nick makes an apologetic face at Dan. “In a very twisted way, I think he has a point, Danny.”

Daniel looks from Martin to Nicklas and back again before sighing, shoulders slumping in defeat. “What do you have in mind, Martin?” 

The Slovakian opens a toothy-smile at him, genuinely excited. “Mercy.”

“That’s your revolutionary plan? The place we used to hang out at every single day of every single week?”

“You haven’t set foot in Mercy in months. I doubt you’ve been to any other club in as much time. And Mercy is the best shit in this town.”

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a bunch of horny queens.”

The Slovakian’s face twists as though someone’s just stabbed him. “I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he snarls. “But. If you’re not in the mood for HOT MEN ROCKING AGAINST EACH OTHER,” he shouts at Daniel’s face, “then that’s exactly why you need to be there. You need to do things that you used to do back when you were a prolific artist. _That’s the point_. You’ll have something to drink, take a little happy pill, shake that fine ass of yours on the dance floor and experience _life_ again for a while before you turn back into a pumpkin.”

“I’m not sure -”

“What, you think your wife is not going to let you? Are you like that now?”

Daniel grunts. “How many fucking times am I gonna have to say Steve has nothing to do with this? He spends the whole day out of the house, if I wanted to do stuff behind his back, I could. But I don’t. Reads my lips, _I don't want to cheat on my boyfriend_.”

“That’s because you’re depressed, baby. And it’s not behind his back if he says you can go.”

“I’m pretty sure he didn't mean fuck someone else when he said I should get out of the apartment, Martin.”

“You don’t have to cheat on him, Dan. See, this is what marriage is doing to you. And Steve thinks it was the drugs that were killing your brain cells,” he tsks at Dan. “What the fuck happened to that wicked imagination of yours?”

“It’s called neurons. And I’m not married.”

“Whatever. You and I are going to grow yourself some new ones, ok?”

Daniel turns back to Nicklas, who’s once more laughing his ass off at Martin. “He doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s saying does he?”

The other Dane nods. “I’m sure he does in his head.”

“Shut up, you cunts! Dagger. There’s a lot to be experienced at Mercy without getting your dick up someone’s ass. You could just watch. Or not. Or just enjoy other things. Have fun, Dagger! Party like you’re 20 fucking 5 again!”

It’s useless to argue with Martin. The man simply doesn’t take no for an answer. Besides, even though he’ll never directly admit it - because admitting defeat to Martin means never hearing the end of it - Daniel can sort of see the point in what he’s saying as well, as in a tiny little light at the end of the tunnel kind of thing. Back when he was still a regular at Mercy he never had problems with his work. Not that he thinks being at Mercy or not has anything to do with it. He wouldn't say he was _happier_ or more accomplished back then. But what the fuck, right? He’s tried everything. It won’t hurt to go back and see what happens.

“Fine, Martin,” he finally gives in, strategically sounding like someone who just agreed on striding down the death row as to make him think he’s won by sheer persistence, rather than by having Dan agree with his stupid ideologies.

Martin jumps from the couch, clapping his hands in excitement, and Daniel immediately regrets it. God knows what that man’s already planning. He bends over and places a loud smack on Daniel’s forehead. “I knew I’d bend you!”

Daniel turns back to Nick, looking slightly desperate. “You coming with us, Nick?” he asks in a near plea.

“Sorry, man. I gotta work tonight.”

“What are you doing?”

“I work at a movie theater.”

“During the night?”

“It’s a porn movie theater,” Martin adds. “He’ll say it’s not, but I know it is ‘cause I’ve been there tons of times.”

Dan cocks an eyebrow at his friend. “Porn, Nick? Really?”

“I’ll explain it to you later.”

“Yeah, he’ll say I’m lying, but I’m really not. You should stop by and see for yourself. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been fucked in that theater.”

“Just because you’re a slut and go there to have sex, it doesn’t mean the movie theatre is pornographic,” Nick says.

“Whatever.”

“Martin, If you get on your pain in the ass mood, I’m bailing on you, got it?” Daniel warns him.

The Slovakian snorts derisively again. “Please, Dagger. Have you forgotten already that I’m the best company any queen in this city could ever want for a night out? You won’t regret it, darling. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go make some phone calls.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and walks away, already dialing, to lock himself up in Nicklas’ bedroom. 

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Nick smiles softly at him. “It’s Martin. He’s got the attention span of a squirrel. Just indulge him for a while. He’ll find someone to pound into his ass in the backroom in no time and you can slip out if you’re tired. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past month.”

“And Simon’s ok with you going to Mercy with Martin?” Daniel asks, frowning in disbelief. Knowing how Simon abhors infidelity, it would probably be the last place he’d be comfortable with letting Nick go to - in the company of the preacher of the traitors' cause of all people as well.

“Simon knows that if I still wanted to be picking up bitches at Mercy I simply wouldn’t have agreed to commit to him. We were still seeing each other anyway. And maybe I’m not in the mood for the girls at Mercy, but they sure as hell give me a lot of inspiration, if you know what I mean,” he winks. “Steve will likely thank Martin after this.”

Daniel hardly thinks it will be the case here, but he says, “Let’s hope so,” anyway, and punctuates his sentence with a dejected sigh.


	3. Here comes the shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I apologize for any mistakes you might find in this chapter. I did my best to try and catch them but the story hasn't been beta'ed and English is not my first language. :/
> 
> Giving sequence to the re-uploading of Deadlines and Commitments! So far, so good.

“Hmmmm…” Daniel groans, throwing his head back and pressing his eyes shut, reveling in that blissful sense of familiarity. It’s been too fucking long since he last had a snort. He almost forgot how good it feels.

They hear the muffled sound of music pumping loudly outside. The walls seem to reverberate and shake to the rhythm of hundreds of bodies dancing, pressing up one against the other. It’s really hot outside, but the bathroom feels even warmer. Daniel is drenched up already, his shirt is clinging to his torso and his hair is already sticking out in odd ways. Martin is so lucky not to have hair, he thinks. Maybe he should shave his head as well. But then, he likes having something to grab onto and pull, and he thinks he ought to give that pleasure to other people as well as take it. Martin hates being controlled. Maybe that’s why he shaves his head, so that no one can pull on it and tell him what to do (although the official version is that it brings out his cheek bones). 

He does like being called a bitch, though. Or a slut. Or a whore. Or anything of that sort. Anything worse than that. It makes Martin purr like a fucking horny cat. Daniel’s not sure his thoughts are still making a lot of sense, but he has the very clear image of Martin stretched out, entangled on bed sheets and moaning like a cow. Maybe it’s the coke, maybe it’s the heat. Probably both. What’s concerning him the most right now is that he’s got no idea how he’s _not_ going to end up this night sleeping with Martin again.

He needs to keep thinking about Steve, which strikes him as problematic even in amidst the jumble of meaningless crap going through his head. He’s here to get his mind away from all the things that have been standing in the way of his art. Steve is not one of those things, probably, but it’s impossible not to remember everything else when he thinks of Steve.

Which is why Daniel’s pretty sure he’s going to end up fucking Martin in one of those dirty stalls at some point.

He has to think of Steve. Martin doesn’t have any hair, but Steve does. Lots of hair. And his hair feels wonderful brushing against his thighs, or sliding through his fingers. He loves Steve’s hair.

The secret not to get carried away and fuck Martin is to think of hair. Keep thinking of hair and it will be fine.

Martin's chuckle pulls him out of his internal dilemma. “It’s good stuff, isn’t it? I told you it was the best. My guy never disappoints me.”

“It’s fucking brilliant,” he says, rubbing his nose with his palm to make sure there’s no vestige of white powder around his nostrils accusing of his little felony. Not that it would really make a difference inside Mercy; almost everyone there is powered up on some illegal substance or another. It’s just a habit; Daniel’s learned to cover his tracks since he started seeing Steve.

“You love this shit, don’t you? You look like you’re about to come.”

“I like how it feels.”

Martin gently pushes Daniel away from the sink. Very carefully, he splits the powder into two very narrow lines - one for each of his nostrils -, putting it together until there’s nothing left on the sides. Then he bends over the sink and snorts it up.

“Damn,” he says, grinning. “Now I’m ready to start my night. I feel naked without my little incentive.”

“I thought you enjoyed feeling naked.”

“Not before I’ve had my snort, no. I get cranky really fast if I don’t take anything. Actually, maybe you should try it too.”

“What do you think I just did?”

“No, I mean for painting. Partying is my job, painting is yours. Have you ever tried taking something to see if your Picasso feelings start flowing again?”

“I can’t take that shit all the time, Martin,” Dan says, rubbing his nose again. “Steve would fucking murder me.”

Martin rolls his eyes and turns back to the sink, washing his hands. “Steve,” he says, disdainfully, almost spitting out the name. “No wonder you can’t work.”

“Shut up, Martin, don’t start.”

“How the fuck are you gonna get inspired sleeping with an aging man like that?”

“What the hell is your problem?” He places a hand on Martin’s shoulder and shoves him away - gently, but it’ll get worse if he doesn’t stop talking. They were doing good so far, but Martin has an inability to resist speaking ill of Steve when the opportunity presents itself to him. “I’m not going to let you fucking ruin my night with your bullshit.”

“You get butthurt because you know it’s true.”

“You’re the one who’s gonna get fucking butthurt in a minute if you don’t quit talking about Steve.”

“Fine. But I sustain my opinion.”

“No one asked for your opinion. Do you have more of that?”

Martin leans his hip against the sink, crosses his arms and cocks Daniel an eyebrow. “Wanna get an OD, do you? Go slow, baby. You’ve been out of the market for a while. This isn’t the kids’ stuff Nick gets you. This is the real shit.”

“I’m in a fucking foul mood and I’m gonna kill a bitch if I don’t have another snort. I need to have fun tonight,” Dan says, emphatically, fixing Martin with a rabid look. He wasn’t in the vibe for this, but now that he’s here, he wants to enjoy it as best as he can. If everything else fails, he wants to, at the very least, get so high he won’t even notice his night sucks. “Do you have more or not?”

Martin shakes his head and starts patting his pockets. “You’re getting really boring, you know, Dagger. I’m only giving it to you ‘cause I love you.” He hands another little pack to his friend, and Daniel rips it out of his hand before he can change his mind.

“Thank you.” Daniel sets two very generous lines on the sink, with not nearly as much care as Martin. It burns as it goes in.

“Aw…” He moans again, throwing his head back.

“Feel better?”

“I will. Give me a second.”

They stay there for a moment, until Daniel opens up a smile and looks back at Martin. His friend chuckles and wipes off the dust from his nose. “Junkie.”

Dan pulls Martin close and smacks a kiss on his lips. “Thank you for the good stuff.”

“Glad I could be of help. Now come on, let’s go kill some bitches on the dance floor.”

Martin takes him by the hand, drags him out of the bathroom and back into the madness.

x-x-x

Daniel likes to dance with his eyes closed. 

It’s good to just feel the music, to let the hordes of bodies pressing up around him push him forward and back again, as though he’s being carried away by a wave, in the middle of the ocean. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol and sex; the music, deafeningly loud. His senses are all heightened and everything feels so much more vivid, so much more powerful and overwhelming; he absolutely loves this. It's hard to remember how in God's name he could ever give all this up. This shit moves him.

Every now and again, someone gets too close; a hand touches his arm or his neck - or his ass and his crotch, if the owner is feeling particularly bold. He likes that too. Most people wouldn’t understand, but these touches are harmless almost to the point of innocence. Everything is allowed in here. These guys are lawyers and businessmen and doctors and teachers and they are just like everyone else during the day. But come the night and all they want is to feel a little love, to be in a place where they can just be themselves, totally free, completely accepted, completely at ease. The thing about Mercy is not that everyone in here is an easy fuck in potential, although many of those guys are more than willing to have a good shag; the thing is that no one cares if you are. It’s all right to be absolutely comfortable with your own sexuality in here. And that’s why they touch and they kiss; that’s what they’re saying. Daniel doesn’t mind that. Steve probably wouldn’t either. He understands that part. It’s the rest of it that he doesn’t like.

Martin is doing a good job at keeping almost everyone at a safe distance from Daniel. If he didn't know better, Dan would think he's got Steve's best interest at heart here. But then he is rubbing himself against Daniel, allowing his hands to wander all over, kissing his neck and his earlobes and the corner of his lips every now and again and, well - definitely not giving a shit about the boyfriend. But this is just Martin. That’s actually behaving by his standards. It’s his way of showing he’s respecting certain boundaries. Under regular circumstances, he’d be already pushing Daniel against a wall and getting on his knees. Count on Martin to be the bluntest man around; he never dances around anything, just goes straight for what he wants. Daniel likes the caresses. It reminds him of good times, back when things were simpler.

In fact, Martin's proximity is being so nice Daniel forgets all about hair, and consequently about Steve and all the crap that's been making him disgruntled and rueful. Suddenly the music and the heat and Martin are all there is. He feels as light as a feather and immerse in the most absolute bliss. He doesn’t know why, there doesn’t seem to be a source for that sensation. It just is. And it is _amazing_.

Martin kisses his cheek and says he’s going to get them something to drink. Daniel forces his eyes open to keep vigilant while his bodyguard is gone. He lets his sight wander about the place, not really fixing on anyone, just a bunch of faceless bodies, until someone catches his attention, a few feet away from him, and he stops.

The guy comes in and out of sight as people pass in front of him, dancing, but he’s standing there, moving from side to side without much purpose, shining pink and yellow and blue and green under the lights flashing above their heads. And he is staring straight at Daniel.

There’s something rather daring about the way that guy is looking at him; it’s insolent and obstinate and provocative at the same time. Like’s he’s challenging Daniel and asking what he's going to do about it.

In some level of his subconscious, Daniel wants to turn away, close his eyes again and go back to his own little moment. But he can’t stop looking back, can’t drop his gaze.

He feels a pair of arms wrapping around his waist from behind and a glass of something materializes in front of his face. “There you go, baby,” Skrtel says, lips touching his ears. Daniel takes the drink away from him and takes a generous gulp. It goes down his throat burning. The guy is still staring.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, turning his face slightly to the side so Martin can hear him. The Slovakian laughs against his neck, placing a bunch of little kisses there.

“It’s my special drink. They let me make it myself.”

It doesn’t seem like it’s a drink at all. It tastes like pure vodka with a few ice rocks and a little umbrella on top to make it look decent. But what the hell. He takes one more gulp, and then Martin leans his chin on Daniel’s shoulder, speaking close to his ear again.

“Someone’s getting eyefucked…” he singsongs.

“What?”

“Don’t play stupid, Dagger. Blondie over there can’t get his eyes away from you. He totally wants you.”

He does. He so does.

“I’m not interested,” Daniel replies to his friend, but his eyes are trained on _blondie_. He hadn’t even noticed the guy had blond hair, to be honest. All he could see were his eyes ablaze.

“Look at how his hips move…” Martin makes a filthy sound. “That’s some nice ass begging to be pounded right over there.”

His hips really do look very nice.

“Why don’t you go dance with him?” Martin suggests, kissing his neck affectionately again.

“I’m already dancing.”

“But not with him. He’s waiting for you to go over there.”

“I’m with _you_ , Martin,” Dan repeats, more emphatically, but he’s still eying the other guy, still noticing how he’s biting his lower lip and how his hips keep moving from side to side and how the bulge in his pants looks rather enticing… Damn it. 

“Don’t stop yourself on my account, Dagger, I can get myself a new dancing partner in no time. Go on. Make some new friends. Dance with blondie.”

Daniel says, “I can’t’”, merely because he knows that that is what he’s supposed to say, but he cannot, for the love of God, remember why. 

“You’re on your day off, honey. You have no wife today. What happens here, stays here. So just go have fun, Dagger!”

Martin gives him a little push and he goes. Suddenly he’s walking across the floor, squeezing himself between dancers until the guy gets closer, resolves into focus and out of expectation.

Only then does Daniel realize how stunningly attractive he is. So beautifully sexy the Dane feels his throat catch.

Blondie grins, approaches him and says, “I thought you’d never come.”

Daniel’s lips part just a little as the stranger places both his hands on his hips, making him move again and join him in the beat. He sucks the air in and feels himself leaning forward, involuntarily, utterly seduced. Blondie breathes him in, throws his head back, closes his eyes, and Daniel’s hands, somehow, end up on his head, carding his fingers through his sweat-clampered hair.

Before he realizes it, they’re kissing. Just the wrong side of desperate, like they both need this so badly they’re about to combust. It’s kissing the way you imagined it would be before actually doing it, like you always imagined it would be from watching people doing it on television, but almost never is. The stranger’s hands are finding their way under his shirt, roaming all over his back, his body thrusting against Daniel’s. Daniel kisses him like this is what he’s meant to do, as if his entire existence was planned for this moment, for this kiss. 

Daniel doesn’t know exactly why, but this man feels like the answer to something. Something big and meaningful and important. It’s wet and desperate and hurried, but it’s exactly how it’s supposed to be, whatever _it_ is.

He’s not entirely sure how it happens, though, because his head is a blurry mess, but the next thing he knows, they’re tumbling their way into one of the bathroom stalls, and he pushes the guy against the door, biting on his lip, kissing his chin and his neck and his collarbone, stuffing his hands inside the front of his jeans and feeling as the moan escaping the man’s lips sends a shuddering jolt straight to his cock.

Blondie pulls Daniel’s shirt off, and the brief second during which they’re not touching actually physically hurts. For just a tiny, little spell, a doubt sparks to life in Daniel’s head, as he wonders whether Martin’s powder was so strong to make him completely lose his mind like this. But the thought is gone as soon as he feels blondie’s tongue inside his mouth again, and blondie’s hands daftly undoing his pants, pulling it down, taking out his cock. They’re relentless and rough and refusing to give an inch, and he knows this will leave bruises in the morning, be he doesn’t care.

Daniel groans in the kiss and the man laughs, stroking his member.

“I’m Fernando,” he says, between little kisses.

“Daniel,” he manages to pronounce.

“Pleasure to meet you, Daniel.”

Dan smirks. “Not yet.”

x-x-x

His eyes are open but there still seems to be some large portion of his brain asleep. Daniel blinks once, then twice, tries to move his arms but the best he can manage is to curl his fingers. His eyelids feel ridiculously heavy. There are spots of color dancing before his face and for a moment Daniel has no idea where he is.

It’s only when he finally turns his face to the side, feeling every bone on his neck cracking in the process, that he realizes he’s been drooling all over Steve’s very expensive Italian couch. He’s home. Which only sends another question to replace the previous one, really, as he has absolutely no idea how he got here.

The last thing he remembers is a bathroom stall and a warm skin against his own, a faint scent of sand and sweat, and a hot, foreign breath on his neck. 

Daniel groans loudly as he rolls on to his side and lifts himself up into a sitting position. His head is weighting some 100 fucking pounds, throbbing like a motherfucker about to explode. It feels like there’s a cell phone vibrating inside his skull. There’s an awkward taste in his mouth, like alcohol and something else. _Someone_ else. He remembers sinking down to his knees, remembers feeling his lips getting numb from sucking too hard until he a powerful shudder took over the body in front of him, followed by a loud groan and long, slender fingers pulling on his hair. 

Daniel licks his own dry lips. He can still taste that kid in his mouth. Probably smell him as well, all over his clothes, if he tries a little harder. He can definitely still remember what he felt like.

It’s gonna take a while for everything to come back. Right now, he thinks in flashes rather than in actual scenes, and it’ll probably be a long time before he can make sense out of the largest part of his night. He’s a fucking mess, everything aches like he’s been put through a grinding machine. But there’s an odd aftertaste there that he can’t quite put his finger on yet, but that is not entirely bad either. He just needs to figure out why, exactly.

He means to get up on his feet and get himself a glass of water, but as he turns his face towards the kitchen, he finds a cutting pair of blue, frosty eyes watching him from the counter. Steve is leaning over, a mug in his hands, watching him in silence. If he wasn’t feeling so goddamn sluggish, he’d be startled. Steve looks like a ghost.

“Jesus,” Dan says, his throat burning as he forces his barely-there voice to come out, hoarse and tired. Putting words together and producing sounds seems a much too difficult process in his current condition. “How long have you been there?” Steve doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. He just stays there, all impassiveness and hard lines. The only thing indicating Daniel’s not hallucinating is the steam coming out of his boyfriend’s mug, blurring his face a little. “Shouldn’t you be working in the morning?”

“It’s six o’clock in the afternoon,” the other man finally replies, in a calm but rather cold manner.

“Damn.” Daniel scratches his head, tries to remember at what time he got home, but, predictably, fails. 

“What did you take?” comes the flat, harsh question. It took Steve less than a minute to figure it out.

“I didn’t take anything,” Daniel lies, hanging his head low and glancing away from his boyfriend. 

He’s afraid that if he lets Steve look him in the eye, or get too close, that he’ll be able to read it all there. He’ll know everything he’s done the night before - and the part where he took drugs is not even what he’s most concerned with. Suddenly Daniel just wants to turn away and hide, because he feels awfully small and young under Steve’s scrutiny. It’s too hard to lie to someone with eyes as piercing as Steve’s. He’s academically trained to extract the truth from people, it’s such an unfair advantage to have in a personal relationship.

But then again, it’s not exactly fair to cheat on him either, is it?

“Daniel,” Steve prods, sharply. 

“I didn’t take anything!” Even as he speaks he knows he’s not supposed to sound this irritated. It only makes him look guiltier, but his head is throbbing and he just can’t think. “It was just booze, all right? I got drunk.”

Steve sighs, wearily, and Daniel lifts his chin just enough to watch as he takes his mug close to his lips, breathes in the warmth of his coffee and then takes a sip. Steve likes his coffee black, no sugar, no cream, no bullshit. The same way he likes his relationships. Except Daniel is nothing if not a big, fat mount of bullshit, and sometimes - like right now - he really doesn’t get what the hell is Steve still doing with him.

Steve gives him a skeptical look, and Dan can see himself in the other man’s eyes: bedraggled, blood-shot, half crocked. He’d be skeptical too if he were Steve.

“It was only some pills,” he speaks, quietly, looking away again as he pushes himself up from the couch. For some reason, saying it was ‘some pills’ sounds better than saying he did coke. Steve loathes all sorts of drugs, but he has a special kind of disgust for cocaine. Everybody takes pills every now and then, right? 

“ _Only_ some pills?” Steve echoes, not at all convinced.

“Yeah, Martin gave me some pills. It was nothing. Harmless.”

“You were passed out on that couch for ten hours.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“You were in a fucking ecstasy coma, is what you were. If that’s even really what you took.”

Daniel exhales loudly, starts to shake his head but gives up as he feels his brain wobbling inside his skull. “Stop talking like I have a drug issue, Steve. It was just this once.”

“ _Just_ this once?” His boyfriend puts down his mug, walks around the counter and stops closer to him, brow furrowed as he finally starts to show signs of the ire Daniel knows is burning inside of him right now. “Is that serious now? You used to be high all day, every week. That’s a fucking drug issue to me.”

“I stopped when you asked me to, didn’t I? People with drug issues can’t stop whenever they feel like it, that’s what constitutes a fucking issue.”

“You stopped when I said I was going to break up with you if you didn’t. And I thought we agreed then that you wouldn’t be doing it anymore.”

“For fuck’s sake, Steve! You were the one who told me to get the hell out of the house. You know very well what I get up to when I get out of the house.”

Steve straightens his eyes into slits, presses his lips into a thin line. Dan knows this look; it’s the ‘I’m trying not to beat the crap out of you, you motherfucking asshole’ look. 

“When I told you to get out of the house, I didn’t mean go to fucking Mercy, I didn’t mean get fucking high and go fucking wild and do whatever the fucking hell you want. I thought I could trust you, Daniel, but apparently I was wrong, just like I’ve been wrong so many times before.”

The Dane grunts in displeasure. This is how their fights go: he does something stupid and suddenly Steve starts blaming him all over again for every single stupid thing he’s ever done in his life. He’s a former convict who’ll always be on a fucking parolee and Steve’s always glad to pull his record and read out his sins to him every single fucking time.

The only problem here is: he feels like the victim of some unfair treatment, but he is just as guilty as Steve makes him sound. This time and in every other time before that. He did do exactly the same things as before once again and Steve was indeed wrong to trust him. He knows that, but his messed up head just refuses to accept it.

“I was in a terrible mood, I wanted to have a good time. So what if I took something? Who cares?! It worked! I had fun, I danced, I got stinking drunk and I forgot all about my stupid work! It was the fucking first night in months where I didn’t feel fucking miserable. You should be happy for me, not giving me stick.”

Daniel meant for it to sound dry and light, to simply communicate the very good reason why he took what he took and did what he did, although he really wouldn’t want to go into the circumstances of that with Steve. But it obviously came out a lot more vinegary than that. 

Something shifts in Steve - he isn’t just angry anymore, now he's also hurt.

It really does take a special kind of talent to be this much of an ass, Daniel thinks. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, as Steve starts doing up the buttons of his shirt.

“Are you?” the Irishman asks, hardly conciliatory, not even bothering to look at him anymore.

“I’m just tired. My head hurts. I don’t really know what I’m saying.”

“I think you do.”

“Steve…”

“Fine, Daniel. Whatever. You had a good time, I’m happy for you.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He walks to the center table, picks up his phone and puts it in his pocket. 

“Say stuff you don’t mean.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I’m stupid.”

“If you say so.”

Steve puts his watch back on his wrist, then his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers and gets his jacket from the back of a chair.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” he says, brusquely. 

Dan shuts his eyes for a second, mentally cursing in Danish, not sure whether he feels worse for having cheated on Steve, for having been a cunt to him afterwards or because he doesn’t think that having him walk out right now is such a bad thing after all.

If there was a prize for worst boyfriend of the year, Daniel’s pretty sure he’d be amongst the finalists every single season.

“Steve…” he starts again, but stops because, honestly, he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m about to leave you alone in a second, Daniel. Are you sure you want to continue this conversation?”

“It was just this once,” he repeats, not sure whether he really means anything by it. It’s just something to say.

“It’s always just this once with you. That’s your fucking problem. Ten years ago I was doing exactly what you’re doing now, I know how this works.”

“Well, then. I am ten years younger than you. Shouldn’t you understand?”

“No. I know what it does to people; I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.”

“You turned out fine, didn’t you?”

“But a lot of people I knew didn’t!”

“I’m not a lot of people, Steve. I’m 25, for fuck’s sake. I think your forget that sometimes. That’s what you’re meant to be doing when you’re 25. I’m supposed to be out there fucking things up before I put on a fucking suit and start getting anal about everything.”

 _Shit_ , Daniel thinks. _Shit, shit, shit_. He just keeps making it worse. He can almost see Martin giving him thumbs up and suddenly he hates himself. 

Silence falls upon them as Steve just stares at him. His expression is unreadable, but four years with a person teaches you how to read even what is not there. 

“I’m sor -”

“Shut up, Daniel,” he says, his voice hard. “Stop talking.”

Steve picks up his car keys and heads to the door. Before he opens it, though, he turns back to Daniel, a light crease between his eyebrows indicating he’s thinking. “You know,” he starts. “It’s not my fault I was born ten years before you. I can’t change that. It would be really great if I was still young and reckless, but unfortunately I’m past that. If that’s a nuisance to you, then maybe you should be with someone your own age.”

The door slams shut like a thunder when he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to everyone reading and commenting on this story! :)


	4. Daniel in the den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I apologize for any mistakes you might find! I have several mitigating factors that oblige you to forgive me: a) it is past midnight; b) English is not my first language; c) the story has not been beta'ed; d) I'm still shaken by the fact Daniel Agger is no longer a Liverpool player and at only 29 has already returned to the Danish league.

Steve is only faintly aware, in some subconscious level, that someone’s calling his name. He knows it's happening, but his brain doesn't register the information, for some reason.

It’s only when something hard and pointy hits him just right under his left eye that he finally snaps out of his reverie.

“Wake the fuck up!” Stevie bellows at him.

“What the fuck, Stevie?!” Finns rubs the sore spot where the thing hit him, and then finds a Mont Blanc pen on the floor next to his chair.

“I’ve been talking to the goddamn walls for twenty fucking minutes.”

“You could’ve poked my eye out!”

“If that’s what it takes for you to listen to me,” Stevie shrugs, irritation adding some more wrinkles to his forehead. “This is a fucking important presentation. If you didn’t want to help me out with it, all you had to do was say so and I would’ve found another poor sod. We have interns for that.”

Steve exhales in frustration. “I’m sorry,” he says, albeit not exactly sounding very apologetic. He picks up his phone from the table and checks his messages. Still nothing. “I want to help out - Ouch! What the fuck?!” This time it was a pen drive that hits him square on the nose. Stevie has a very good aim, unfortunately.

“Then stop looking at your fucking phone when you’re talking to me or I’ll just keep throwing things at you.”

“I was just checking the phone.” He leaves it back on the table and raises his palms up in surrender.

Stevie rolls his eyes and lets out a dramatically long sigh, pulling a chair for himself and sitting down, arms crossed over his chest. “All right,” he says, fixing Finns with an inquisitive glare. “Shoot.”

“Shoot what?”

“Whatever less-important-than-my-presentation thing that is keeping you from paying attention to me.”

“I think I’d rather we just stick to your PowerPoint.”

“Oh, now you’re interested in my PowerPoint, are you?” He snorts. “We’re getting back to it and you’re going to sit through every single detail of my brilliantly made slides, don’t worry. But before we do that, you’re going to tell me what the hell is wrong with you today.”

Finns scrubs his face with his hands, suddenly feeling every single minute he should’ve spent asleep the night before but didn’t weighing over his shoulders. He’s exhausted and irritated and he didn’t even have enough time for a proper coffee power bomb before Stevie locked him in a conference room and attacked him with a Mont Blanc.

“It’s just…” he starts, stops, then tries again. “Problems. Personal problems. Nothing major. I’m just distracted.”

“Stephen…” Stevie says around a sigh. “I’ve known you for ten fucking years. Do me a favor and don’t act like I don’t know when something’s off with you, yeah?”

“You’re a pain in my arse, did you know that?”

“Yes. And you love it. What did Daniel do this time?”

The thing with keeping such a close friendship for such a long time is that you relinquish certain rights. Like the right to make up lame excuses for when you simply don’t want to talk about something, or the right to not discuss your private life, or even the right to not sit through a presentation when you simply can’t get your mind around what’s being said. You can’t _not_ help a friend you’ve had for ten years when he asks you to and you can’t lie to his face either, because he’ll just know you’re lying, and Stevie, being Stevie, won’t let it go until hearts are being poured out.

The worst part, though, is that he doesn’t even have to say what the problem is. Stevie already knows that too. Finns hates discussing anything about Daniel with Stevie. He just gives him _that_ look, twists his lips in _that_ way. He never says ‘I told you so’, but sometimes Finns wishes he would just do it and get it over with instead of making these obnoxious faces like he ate something rotten.

His friends and Daniel don’t mix up very well, the same way Daniel’s friends aren’t exactly his biggest fans either. And that’s not a problem, not necessarily; they don’t need to be one big happy family. Steve actually thinks it’s a good thing they’re not all running in the same circles. He likes having the option of not having Daniel around for a while, the same way he knows Daniel enjoys taking a break from him to hang out with people that are absolutely nothing like him - regardless of the opinions Steve might have on some of his companions, namely Martin.

Now, though, he’s starting to wonder whether that’s simply not an indicative of something bigger, like a reflection of a deeper issue coming out. Maybe it means something after all that they’re simply unable to get along with each other’s acquaintances. Maybe it means that they shouldn’t be getting along either.

“We just had a fight,” he explains, slumping back against his chair. “And I haven’t seen him since.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday, right after I got home from work. I got pissed, walked out and he texted me afterwards saying he was going to the studio and that I shouldn’t wait for him. But I waited for him, barely had any sleep whatsoever, and he didn’t even show up.”

“Why don’t you just call him if you’re so worried?”

“Like fuck!” Steve frowns indignantly at his friend. “I’m the one who’s angry. _He_ should be calling _me_ and apologizing.”

Steve gives him a pointed eye roll. “Right, because Daniel’s clearly the mature one in the relationship.”

“Every time we have a fight, doesn’t matter whether I’m right or wrong, I’m always the one who ends up waving the white flag and starting the peace treaty. But this time I want him to come to me for a fucking change.”

“What was the fight about, anyway?”

“A lot of things,” he says. “Mostly about how I don’t think he’ll ever change.”

“Objectively or just in general?”

“He went to Mercy last night, got completely hammered, stuffed his face with drugs, did God knows what and then made everything worse by telling me I’m too old to understand.”

Stevie’s eyes widen in shock. “He wouldn't!”

“Not in those words, but it’s what he meant.”

“What a fucking arsehole! Did you punch him? I hope you punched him.”

“I didn’t.” Finns raises his palm in the air to cut Stevie off before he has the chance to begin his traditional Dan-is-a-cunt rant. “I’m not his fucking mother. I can’t spank him every time he does something wrong. I’m not here to teach him how to live his life. That’s not the kind of boyfriend I want to be. I don’t want to tell him what to do, where to go, to forbid him from going out or from seeing his friends. I don’t have to stick a fucking GPS up his arse to keep track of what he’s doing 24/7. That’s not me. But every fucking time I think I’m being stupid for not trusting him, he proves me wrong.” Steve punctuates his phrase with a dejected sort of sigh.

“That’s why you should fucking punch him.”

“A punch is not going to solve anything, Stevie.”

“Then what will?”

“I don’t know! That’s the point! Maybe nothing.”

Stevie purses his lips, and for a moment it looks like he’s about to say something, but he gives up and looks away instead.

“You think I’m wasting my time,” Finns says.

“I wouldn’t say wasting your time…” Stevie shrugs. “But something like that.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you love him, obviously, God knows why. And, regardless of how little I think of him in general, I took a vow to hold back on my criticism and let you draw your own conclusions with time. I wouldn’t say it’s a _complete_ waste of your time. Loving him might be a big waste of time, but if you do, then it can't be a waste of time to try and work things out.”

“But?”

“But you can do much better than Daniel.”

Finns regards him studiously for a spell. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What the fuck do you even mean by that, Finns? And take a moment to think before you expand on your point of view because I have no reservations about punching you if you say what I think you’re going to say.”

“I am old, Stevie.” Stevie throws his head back in an ‘Oh my God’ sort of way, shaking it helplessly. “I feel old, anyway. I feel like one of those old queers who hang around clubs trying to pick up young studs. Remember those guys at Mercy back in our days? They were creeps. I never thought I'd become one of those, but I'm one Freddy Mercury mustache away from it." Finns opens his arms in a 'See?' sort of way, to which Stevie presses his lips tightly together and groan as to keep from yelling at him. "Daniel is a stud. He’s 25, he’s athletic, he’s sassy, he’s artistic, he’s witty and almost outrageous at times. He’s an exciting figure. Everything that I’m not. I knew that when I met him and it’s not that I want to change anything about him, ‘cause I don’t. But sometimes it seems to me like we want completely different things from life.”

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now. It’s so much bullshit I don’t know where to start.”

“He’s miserable, Stevie,” Finns says. “He _was_ miserable, anyway. For months. Spent the entire fucking week locked in, sulking, raging on against the world. He couldn’t work, couldn’t do anything other than be a complete cunt. And I wanted so badly to help him out, you know? He was getting on my fucking nerves and all I wanted was to do something, anything, to make him stop.” And this might just be the first time Stephen Teresa of Calcutta is actually admitting that he wasn’t being entirely selfless when he tried to please Daniel’s good mood into coming back. “But my way of helping was buying him dinner from his favorite restaurant, or preparing him a bubble bath, or sucking him off in the shower. That’s what I know how to do. And it didn’t do anything for him. Then last night, he goes out with that slut Martin, does all the things he knows I hate the most and he’s happy again! He said he didn’t think about his work for one second, which I think really means he didn't think about me either, and he said that was the best moment he's had in months. What do you think that’s saying about us?”

“To me, the only thing that says is that he’s a fucking idiot.”

“Stop thinking with your brain, Stevie, try to think with mine,” Finns says, irritation seeping through his voice.

“That’s precisely my point, Finns. Your brain is not thinking clearly because it is blinded by the fact you love that knobhead.”

Well. Yes, Finns thinks. Maybe. Probably. But still. His judgment may be clouded by the intrinsic sense of despair that comes after a big row with a lover. A million things start going through his head, and he immediately begins dissecting every little flaw in their relationship to try and figure out what, exactly, is going wrong. It’s how his lawyer head works; he needs to be prepared for everything, so he wants to understand it to the minimum details. He knows he’s not at fault in this particular situation, but looking at the bigger picture, it’s easy to see how Daniel’s duplicity might not be entirely without a reason. 

But then Stevie’s judgment is not entirely unambiguous either. He never liked Daniel, but it’s not even a personal thing. Stevie never likes anyone Finns goes out with. He thinks it’s his job to approve his friend's prospective boyfriends and Finns has long come to the conclusion that, unless he picks a guy who happens to be exactly like Stevie, no one will ever pass the test.

“First of all, you’re not old; you’re 35, for fuck’s sake. You put up with his crap, you support him, you give him a nice place to live, amongst thousands of other things. That kid’s got an easy life and it’s all because of you. If he makes his way through life with a fucking frown because he can’t paint and he thinks that’s your fault -”

“He never said it’s my fault,” Steve corrects him.

“Whatever, I’m not done yet. And if he thinks it’s your fault, even though he won’t tell you that, then he’s nothing more than a motherfucking cunt, Finns. You’re good to him and you’ve been good to him even when you shouldn’t have. If it was me, he wouldn’t have lasted a month in my place, the ungrateful bastard.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thought I don’t want to have.”

“You mean the right thought?”

“I mean the idea that he owes me something and therefore should do whatever I want him to. He never asked for anything, I offered it to him. I love him, we’re together, I have a better condition than he does; it’s only natural that I support him. It’s not like he doesn’t do anything and just lives off of me. When he’s selling his paintings, he makes good money. He owes me nothing.”

“He owes you fucking respect, Finns. I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about the fact he should have a lot more consideration for you, because the amount of shit you take for that bloke, not a lot of people would.”

Steve wants to retort, but can’t find the words, so he bites his lower lip instead. He prides himself in having an answer to everything, but it is not at all unusual for him to be left speechless by Stevie’s arguments when the subject of their conversation is Daniel, and that, in itself, is rather annoying. Not to mention preoccupying as well. It took him four years, but he’s finally starting to read into things that he had previously overlooked (like the fact Daniel seemed happier before he moved in, although it’s never anything to do with him, or so he says) or how he’s been sulking for months and nothing Steve ever does seems to improve his spirits for more than a couple of hours, or even how Stevie always ends their arguments by being right once he starts listing all the reasons why Daniel is not well suited for him. Finns is reading the underlines in all of this, and he does not like what he’s finding.

But there’s still one major point in all of this, one that Stevie likes to strategically relegate to second spot when he bloody well knows that it is the most important part: he fucking loves Daniel. Even when he’s grumpy, even when he’s depressed, even after he gets his face stuffed with coke. Steve still loves him when he hates that motherfucker and he likes to think that Daniel loves him too, otherwise it would be only too easy for him to pack his bags and move back to his studio, or to one of his friends’ flats, somewhere where he wouldn’t have a person to pick on him all the time.

It’s been four years and he’s still there. That has to mean something.

“So what are you gonna do?” Stevie asks after a while.

“I don’t know. I’m thinking. That’s why I was distracted.”

“Are you thinking about breaking up with him?”

Finns sighs; Stevie almost looks hopeful, like he could high-five him if he says yes. “Of course not. I can’t break up with him. I get pissed, we fight, then we fuck our way back into temporary bliss. Only I think maybe I should do something, because I’m not sure how much longer I can take this shit and I really don’t want to live with this feeling that I’m losing him.”

“He’s losing you, Finns.”

“That’s one point of view.”

Stevie shakes his head at his friend, helplessly. “Fine. Then don’t break up. But point a finger to his face and make him behave.”

“He’s not a dog, Steven.”

“He sure acts like one.”

“Seriously, Gerrard. That’s why I don’t tell you anything. All you have to offer are stupid comments.”

“You always tell me everything.”

“Yeah, well, only after you insist. I never mean to tell you anything, and usually I regret doing it.”

Stevie makes a funny face at him and then stands up, opens up his arms and says, “Come here.”

Finns frowns. “What for?”

“Just fucking come here, will ya?”

Slowly, Finns obliges, and when he gets near enough, Stevie pulls him into a very tight hug, pressing a kiss on his cheek. “What was that for?” Finns asks.

“I’m showing affection, this way you’ll understand that everything I say, I say because I love you and I care about you.”

Finns pulls away from him just enough to look him in the eye, a weird frown still on his face and an amused grin splattered on his lips. “Since when are you into showing affection like this?”

“Since Xabi started pestering me about it. He read a book or something and now he thinks I’m cold and distant.” He rolls his eyes and sighs again. “But you know, he kind of owns me, so I have to indulge him, and since you’re just as stubborn as he is, I thought this nonsense might work on you as well.”

Finns makes a mock-thoughtful face. “Nope, just think you’re weird.”

“Get the fuck out of here, then.” Stevie pushes him away playfully and sits back down. 

Laughing, Finns walks back around the table, to his chair. He won’t be telling that to Stevie, but Xabi’s tactic actually worked. He might not be feeling better, but at least he’s sincerely amused and laughing, probably for the first time in the last 24 hours or so.

“I know what I’m going to do,” he announces as he makes himself comfortable again, slumping back against his chair. “I’m going to watch your presentation and I’m going to pick on every little bit of detail and we’re going to make that the best presentation in the history of ever.”

Stevie arches him a suspicious eyebrow. “Ok…”

“And then I’m going to take my lunch hour to go to the studio.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about that when I get there. But that’s my plan. Are you ok with my plan?”

“I could argue with a few points…” Finns glowers. “… but I’m not going to, it’s a brilliant plan, I’m all in.”

“Great.” The Irishman props his feet up on the table. “I’m all yours, then.”

x-x-x

Fernando is thinking of probabilities. 

He doesn’t believe in fate, that much he’s certain of. He never has, probably never will. But if you’re going to be skeptical about life, then you need to have a plausible explanation for it. For everything, really. Something to dismiss the theory that says that everything happens for a reason.

Fernando believes that everything happens by chance. Everything that happens to an individual can, at least theoretically, happen to any other person and the only reason certain things happen to certain people but not to others is because certain chains of events make these people more susceptible to specific happenings than others. Or, more simply, because they happen to be at the right (or the wrong) place, at the right (or wrong) time.

Like meeting a tall, dark stranger at a night club, for instance.

It could’ve been anyone; maybe if he hadn’t stopped to dance at the exact spot he did he would’ve never seen the guy, or if someone had bumped into the guy at the precise moment they made eye contact, he wouldn’t have looked back, or he would’ve been pissed and then wouldn’t have noticed, or something else entirely. There are hundreds of possibilities, but the point is: they met. 

Fernando wasn’t looking for more than just a feeble, carefree shag to help him ease away the tension. He didn’t mean for it to happen in a bathroom, mind you, but he wasn’t too bothered about it. He’s shagged people in bathrooms before - it’s uncomfortable, yes, but, depending on the circumstances, it can be interesting. This was one of those times with the right sort of circumstances. Interesting, however, doesn’t quite begin to describe it, although it’s certainly one thing to be said about it.

That part is pretty straightforward and he’s sure it happens at least a million times every night at Mercy. People meet by chance, fuck and then part ways like nothing happened. It’s just business - people helping people fulfill their needs and relax. It’s what happened next that got him thinking.

There are too many probabilities influencing their second meeting: the odds of him hooking up with a complete stranger, while drunk, for a one-night stand, in a bathroom, and actually wanting to see the guy again; the odds of the guy feeling the same way; the odds of the two of them going back to the same place, with the same intentions - of seeing each other again - after exchanging nothing more than their first names and bodily fluids; the odds of them finding each other in the middle of hundreds of people; the odds that, being sober and considerably less desperate, that they both still look rather enticing to one another; and last but not least, the odds that this whole mess combines into something that feels absolutely right.

He believes in chance, in coincidences, in mathematic calculations defining absolutely everything that can happen to a person - the chance of a person meeting someone else, of a person getting hit by a car, of getting a job, or writing a best-seller. But then he’s trying to come up with an answer to why a random pick-up at an infamous night club is pulling him apart and unleashing a fresh batch of butterflies in his stomach, because, really - how can something that happens completely by chance feel so perfect? It makes him think of the expression ‘meant to be’, and that makes him shiver.

Fernando thinks that maybe, just maybe, the answer to that is that everything is casual, everything is random. And for that precise reason you sometimes have to act like nothing is.

If there was ever anything to make him believe in destiny, it is this: that tall, dark stranger was meant to end up in his bed. 

He’s not such a stranger anymore, though. He even has a last name now: Agger.

Fernando hears the sound of fabric rustling and he turns to see that his stranger is waking up. He looks momentarily confused, perhaps not really recognizing where he is; it’s only when their eyes meet and Fernando gives a short, sympathetic grin that he seems to relax, stretching out like a cat and smiling back.

“Good morning,” he says, stifling a yawn.

“Did you sleep well?” Fernando asks.

“Like a fucking baby.”

Daniel’s got a Saturday morning, lazy kind of mischief about his face, a cheeky grin plastered on his lips, as he crosses his arms under his head to give him better leverage to look at Fernando. The sheets are barely covering his modesty, and Fernando thinks he looks absolutely gorgeous, in an unconventional manner. The tattoos are beautiful against the white of his linen, and the Spaniard wishes he had a camera to register that moment.

“What are you doing?” Daniel asks, nodding towards Fernando’s laptop, open over the desk in front of him.

“I was trying to work.”

“On a Saturday morning?”

“I work when I feel like it.”

“What do you do?”

Ah, the Spaniard thinks. The personal questions are starting to arise, the part where they get to know more about each other.

“I’m a writer," he says, slightly proud of himself to be finally saying that with some propriety. He'll be signing a contract that guarantees his status as an author in just a couple of days, after all.

Daniel’s eyebrows arch up in mild surprise. “Really?”

“You look surprised.”

He shrugs. “I’ve just never met a writer before.”

“Well, I’m still in the process of writing my first actual novel, so. I guess I’m not officially a writer yet. But I’m working on it.”

Daniel lets out a laugh, rich and amused, and shakes his head. Fernando frowns. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… What you said, reminded me a little bit of myself.”

“Do you write too?”

“No. I paint. But I haven’t painted anything in months, and you can’t be a painter unless you paint something, right?”

A painter. Really. That’s…Unusual. Although - well, he doesn’t exactly look like a businessman or a doctor or anything like that. There’s something a little out of the curve about him, which makes the fact that he’s a painter not entirely unexpected. 

“If you’ve painted something before, I guess that makes you a painter.”

“But what if I never paint anything again?”

Fernando considers the question for a second; he doesn’t know why, but it seems to him like a very deep, existential matter. Like, say, what’s the meaning of life, or what came first, the chicken or the egg. The question doesn’t sound very resonant or profound, but once you actually stop to think about the answer, you realize it’s not as stupid as you first imagined.

“I think it doesn’t matter,” he finally replies. “I’m not a writer because I don’t have a book - yet. But when I have a published novel, then it will always be there, even if I never write anything, ever again. So it counts. An engineer doesn’t stop being an engineer just because he’s unemployed.”

Maybe it’s an impression, but he thinks something changes in the way Daniel’s looking at him when he says that - he seems disappointed, or sad, and then he drops Fernando’s gaze, and he looks away, at the window, thoughtful. 

“What is it?” Fernando asks, tensing up. “Did I give the wrong answer?”

Daniel turns back to him and smiles, but it’s short and melancholic. “Nah,” he says. “It’s just I’ve heard that same thing from someone else.”

“Oh,” is all Fernando says, for lack of something better. He’s not sure what Daniel means by that, it doesn’t really explain why he suddenly became wistful, but it sounds like something he doesn’t want to get into details about. Too soon.

When the silence becomes too awkward for him to bear, Fernando gets up from his chair and walks back to the bed. Daniel sparkles back into life as the Spaniard straddles him and then leans forward, hands on his chest, to kiss him. Dan looks pliant underneath him, his mouth open, welcoming his kisses, and Fernando is glad to oblige.

Fernando is not very good with morning-afters - he’s never comfortable with the etiquette of the situation, doesn’t really know what to say, what to do. But this doesn’t feel like a problem right now; they don’t have to talk, they can only kiss. Kissing is good. Kissing is bloody fantastic.

Daniel’s kisses had been impatient and horny in the previous two nights; filthy and messy and so, so good. Now he’s showing another side of his repertoire; slow and gentle and deep. It’s like they’ve been doing this for years - together, anyway. They either have an absurd chemistry for people who just met, or Daniel’s simply that good, because he pushes all the right buttons.

They kiss languorously for some time, Dan’s hands resting on his waist, bodies shifting slowly rather than passionately. Eventually they remember they have to breathe, so they break apart, and Daniel groans in protest against his mouth.

“I was enjoying that,” he says, in-between little kisses.

Fernando chuckles. “I’m sure you were.” He pauses. “Can I ask you something?” The other man makes a sound of agreement. “Why did you go back to Mercy last night?”

Daniel stops kissing his face momentarily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you a regular at Mercy or is there a specific reason why I met you on two consecutive nights?”

Daniels is quiet for a second. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious.”

Daniel watches him thoughtfully. His features are wrought deep with an expression. He looks like he’s feeling something.

“Remember when I said I couldn’t paint?” he asks after a while. Fernando nods. “Well, I kind of started painting again, after we met. Last night I went to my studio and… It just happened.”

Fernando’s lips curve into a broad, open smile. “Are you saying you went back there because I might be your muse?”

Daniel chuckles. “Something like that.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever inspired anyone to do anything,” he says, not exactly hiding his contentment. 

“I’m sure you’ve inspired people to do many things, many times.” Daniel’s hands slide down his waist to grab his ass. “With a backside like this, I’m sure many wanks have been had in your honor.”

Fernando narrows his eyes menacingly. “You are disgusting.”

“Just telling the truth.”

“Is that the kind of inspiration I gave you?”

His face softens. “No,” he admits. “I just woke up with a horrible hangover and a will to go back to work that I hadn’t experienced in months. I hadn’t even been to my studio.”

“Have you figured if it was really me the source of your inspiration?”

Daniel sighs, letting his arms fall next to his body on the bed. “Yeah,” he says, almost sheepishly. “It was you.”

Fernando beams, his smile barely fitting on his face, and he’s only a tiny bit embarrassed by that. He should probably try to look cooler and less impressed, after all he only knows this guy for two nights and half a morning. Again his mind starts considering possibilities; what are the odds of him finding someone worth keeping in a haven of promiscuity at attempt number one?

He leans over again, tracing a slow, wet line with his tongue - starting with the corner of Dan's lips, then down his jaw, his collarbone, and then biting on his neck. He feels Daniel relaxing under his ministrations, his breath faltering for just a tiny, little second, his heart beating faster under Fernando’s hands. He thinks it must be pretty easy getting used to this, and there’s maybe a little voice in his head saying that it’s soon for that kind of assumption, but the better part of him simply doesn’t care. Daniel’s body is warm and beautiful and enticing and he thinks that this weird kind of chemistry doesn’t happen every day.

The Spaniard places short, wet kisses down his chest, outlining the necklace tattooed on his skin, and feels Daniel winding his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp as he pulls lightly on the blond strands. Just as he’s about to pull the rest of the sheets away, though, Daniel says, “What is your book about?”

Fernando lifts his chin just a tiny bit, blinking at him. Daniel’s watching him from under his lashes. “Transitions,” he says, simply, partly because he doesn’t like explaining his work, partly because they’re about to have sex and he really, really doesn’t want to expand himself on that right now.

“I like that word,” Daniel muses. “I’d read a book about transitions.”

“Maybe I’ll let you read it one day.” He pauses. “If you let me see the painting.”

“Absolutely not.” Daniel says it with such ease and spontaneity that it takes Fernando aback for a moment.

“Not?”

“I don’t let anyone see my paintings until they’re 100% perfect.”

“And when does it get 100% perfect?”

“When I can’t think of anything else to do with it and I decide that I like it. If I finish something that I don’t like, nobody sees it either.”

“Really? No one?” Daniel shakes his head. “Not even your _muse_?” He stretches out the last word in a near plea.

The other man chuckles. “I’ve never had a muse like that before, but I’m thinking no. Especially not my muse. I wouldn’t want you to hate something that was inspired by you.”

“So I’ll never get to see my own portrait?”

“It’s not a portrait. It’s abstract.”

“It’s still a portrait. It’s me.”

“Yeah, but it’s not you, you. It’s how I feel when I’m with you.” Again, Fernando sees a trace of sadness flickering across his eyes. But it lasts only for a second and then it’s gone. He touches the Spaniard’s face with one hand, caressing his cheeks with the tip of his fingers, and Fernando shifts his face just enough for him to kiss Daniel’s tattooed fingers, one after the other; the other man smiles gently at him. “My art is not about things, it’s about sensations.”

“Yeah?” he asks, kissing the palm of Dan’s hand. “And what sensations are you getting right now?” The Spaniard grabs his hand to hold it steady and licks his middle finger, from the base to the top, then sucks it into his mouth while staring pointedly at the other man. Daniel’s eyes sparkle with arousal.

“I’m sensing this,” he says, guiding one of Fernando’s hands to his crotch, still covered by the white sheet. He’s half-hard already. The Spaniard wraps his hand around the other man’s shaft, stroking it lightly. Daniel’s lips part and he lets out a long, lazy moan that connects to something inside Fernando and sends a tingly sensation down his waist. “And I’m sensing I want your mouth there right now,” he adds.

Fernando chuckles. “We can see to that,” he starts. “But only if we can make a deal.”

Daniel cocks him an impatient eyebrow. “What deal?”

“Promise that you’ll let me see the painting when it’s done, if you like it.”

He stops, hand unmoving around Daniel’s cock as the other man ponders over his proposal. It doesn’t sound like such an absurd thing, does it? He’s really curious about it - no one’s ever painted him, or anything related to him, before. Besides, it sounds like the perfect excuse to see him again without having to go back to Mercy and pretending it’s totally casual. Next time they meet it is not going to be down to chance; Fernando wants to make sure of that.

“All right,” Daniel finally replies. “I’ll let you see it.”

“Brilliant,” he says, finally pulling the sheet away and lowering his head down. “It’s a pleasure to make business with you,” Fernando adds, with a cheeky grin. Going so long without having sex turned him into a greedy sod.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Dan says, then thrusts his hips up. Fernando takes him into his mouth and they lose themselves back into this excitingly new yet strangely familiar rhythm again.

x-x-x

Upon much consideration, during a twenty minutes taxi ride, what Steve concludes is this: telling Daniel he can do whatever he wants and expect him not to screw up is basically the same as taking the plug out of the bathtub and telling the water it can go anywhere it wants.

Steve’s still angry - in fact, he’s angrier now, because Daniel should’ve been desperate to apologize, should be begging for fucking forgiveness, but instead he buggered off to God knows where and didn’t even bother sending a signal to let him know he’s still alive - but the truth is, and this is what this all sums up to, he’s probably as much to blame as Daniel is.

Daniel made it no mystery that he’s got absolutely no self-control and that limits become just meaningless, blurred lines when he gets in his mood.

Steve, however, doesn’t want to be Daniel’s mother. He doesn’t want to tell him what he can or cannot do, who he can or cannot see. The ten years between them doesn’t make Daniel young enough to be his son. He doesn’t want to have to worry about what the fuck Dan’s doing every single hour of every single day when they’re not together. He’s got way too fucking much in his head as it is for his _relationship_ to be a problem rather than a blessing.

Always the blind believer, Steve thought, well, why not, right?, when he suggested Dan should try to go out again. He’s old enough to differ right from wrong, they’ve been together for enough time for him to settle down and he had been fairly behaved, as far as Steve knows, for a long time. 

Trusting Daniel, though, is a lot like throwing a boomerang. He shoots it off into the distance thinking ‘This is it, this is the time to let him run free’, but it always invariably ends up coming back to thump him on the head. He suddenly remembers reading ‘The Scarlet Letter’ in college, and he thinks Daniel would definitely get to walk around brandishing a bright red A on his lapel. Then again, he would probably get an S himself, for STUPID, pinned to his forehead.

When he gets to Dan’s studio’s door, he stops. It’s been some good two or three months since he’s been here. His heart is drumming away inside his chest and Finns realizes he’s nervous. If Daniel’s not inside, then they’ll have a bigger issue than they did the day before, because if he’s not here, it all mounts back to his pulling-the-plug-on-the-bathtub conclusion. If he’s somewhere else, with someone else, he’s likely doing something Steve’s not going to approve of, something he doesn’t even want to think about.

The Irishman is actually not even sure what he’s doing here, to be honest. Stevie asked him that maybe a billion times before he left the office - ‘But what are you going to do?’, ‘Are you breaking up with him?’, ‘What are you going to say?’, ‘Are you going to bitchslap him?’.

The questioning was really annoying the fuck out of him, but there was a point to it. Just showing up and saying nothing is the same as not showing up at all. He should’ve come up with a plan. 

They’ve had too many arguments about the Dane’s terrible habit of not locking the door at the studio - Dan says it’s a place where ‘things need to flow, and the locked door breaks the fluidity’, Steve obviously thinks that’s all bollocks and that he’s going to get robbed one of those days. Not that there’s much to be stolen inside, but still. It’s a matter of logic: if you don’t want people inside your place, you lock the fucking door. Apparently, though, that’s another principle that gets completely lost on Daniel, because the door is as unlocked as it has always been.

Finns pushes it open just a little crack, craning his head to look inside. When he spots Daniel, he lets go of a breath he seemed to be holding for hours. 

Despite being together for four years, Steve hasn’t witnessed Daniel in the act of painting more than maybe three or four times. Daniel hates to be watched as he paints, he absolutely can’t stand having anyone around him when he’s working on something (all the more reason for him to lock his door, you’d think, but no, not to Daniel. Steve wonders if that’s how things are in Denmark, if no one locks their doors in Copenhagen. Maybe he should go there and rob some houses just to teach those people a thing or two about how the world is not a perfect, Scandinavian place). Steve never really asked why, because it’s probably something else that won’t make sense to him, such as the fluidity of the open door. It’s artists’ stuff, and his head is too logical for that kind of thing, so he merely respects it. But he does love to watch him as he works…

Daniel looks so concentrated, eyes ablaze and focused and sparkling with such vividness, something Steve thinks he only ever gets to see in his boyfriend’s eyes when they’re having a particularly good fuck. Dan is a beautiful man, he thinks, but he looks absolutely stunning when he’s like that, completely immerse in his own world, his arms attacking the canvas with the brush with precise, calculated and flowy twists of his wrist. The way he bites his lip, how the spot between his eyebrows becomes all wrinkled… Steve’s not going to say that watching him is as good as sex, because that would be a blatant lie. But it’s probably the next best thing.

He lets go of the door and it creaks as it opens, pulling Daniel out of his moment. Steve’s about to give him a smile, almost forgetting that he’s supposed to be mad, when Dan’s eyes widen in shock. It’s all very fast: he drops the brush, takes three gigantic, hurried steps to the door, pushes Steve out with one arm and shuts the door behind the two of them with the other, locking them out in the corridor.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, something akin to panic in his voice.

Steve blinks at him, dumbfounded and not entirely sure of what just happened. “Did you just shove me out?” he asks.

“No!” Dan hurries to say, his face contorting as though he only just realized how horrible what he did was. “No, I wasn’t shoving you out, I was just… I just…”

“You just kicked me out of your studio.” Steve can feel a bubble of rage rising inside his chest all over again. “What the fuck, Daniel?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kick you out,” he says, shaking his head helplessly. “You know I hate it when people see what I’m doing.”

“I’m not _people_. And you didn’t have to kick me out, for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t even looking at your damn painting, I was looking at you!”

“I just started something, Steve. I don’t even know if it’s good, I don’t even know what it is, really, I just - I thought if you saw it - if anyone sees it before it’s done - I don’t even know if it’s going to be done - I -”

“Jesus Christ, stop talking. I don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Dan exhales wearily. “I’m saying I’m sorry.”

“Are you? Because you’re supposed to be sorry for a lot of things right now, but I haven’t seen your face since yesterday and when I decide to show up, you just shove me out. It doesn’t look to me like you’re sorry, at all.”

Dan swallows down hard, looks away from him, scratches the back of his head. “l am,” he speaks, low and sheepish, something very unlike him, and it sends a pang of fear shooting right through Steve.

He knows that look only too well.

“I just came here to see if you are alive, since you seem to have forgotten there was someone waiting for you somewhere.”

“I got distracted,” he says, still not meeting his eyes.

“Right,” Steve nods. “ _Distracted_.”

“Steve…” Daniel starts, stops, rubs his face with hands, then sighs. “Shit.”

“Yeah, that seems to be the word of the day.”

“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“Usually when you don’t want someone to be mad at you, you don’t do anything to piss them off.”

“I screwed up.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Daniel looks up at him, and Steve can’t decide if he looks more dejected or guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Daniel.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to mean it before you say it, otherwise it just makes me want to hit you.”

“You should hit me. I’m an idiot.”

“Hitting you is not going to make you less of an idiot. It’ll be just another waste of my time.”

“Another?” 

Steve considers him for a moment, thinks about listing all the things that have been wastes of time in the past four years, about how their entire relationship is turning out to be just a huge amount of time beautifully thrown into a trash can, because he obviously can’t fucking grow any decency. Instead, Steve merely shrugs. Speaking all this out loud would definitely consist in a waste of time, anyway. 

“Coming here was obviously a waste of my time,” he says. “I was almost, _almost_ , not mad at you anymore, but then you kicked me out and I can’t even remember why I was thinking about forgiving you in the first place.”

“I didn’t k -”

“Oh, shut up, Daniel. I don’t know why I came here, but it was definitely not to get pushed out the door by my boyfriend. Is it really just the painting that you don’t want me to see?”

“Yes,” Dan says, easily. “I don’t want you to see the painting.”

Finns lets out a mirthless laughter and shakes his head slowly. “Whatever, Daniel. Have a good day.”

He turns around and walks away with his chest feeling heavy and his mouth awkwardly dry. “Steve,” Daniel calls, and he considers ignoring him and just turning around the corner, but figures someone has to be the grown up in this relationship, and it necessarily has to be him. 

Slowly and much against his own juvenile wishes of giving Dan the ice treatment, he swirls on his heels. “What?”

“I love you.”

Steve doesn’t know if he wants to cry or to follow Stevie’s advice and punch Daniel. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard those three words as devoid of feeling as they sounded just now. Well, not entirely devoid of feeling; it’s just not the right feeling.

“Daniel,” he starts. “Don’t you ever fucking say that to me again unless you mean it.”

He takes two steps at a time as he goes down the stairs to find a taxi to take him back to work. And he thought his day couldn’t get any worse.

Stevie will love to hear about this.


	5. Crawling back to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe it took me this long just to review a chapter... Last few months have been a bitch. :/ Now I know what Daniel feels like. I think my muse has abandoned me as well.
> 
> As always, feedback is much, much welcome. This chapter gained 1000-ish new words in comparison to its first version. Hope both new and old readers enjoy it. :)

“Here it is,” Nick says, putting a big, beautiful omelet on Daniel’s plate. Omelets are Nick’s specialty.

Actually, it’s more like the only thing Nicklas can cook. But, truth be told, he did invest a lot of time in perfecting the technique. There aren’t many things in this world quite as good as Nick’s omelet. It’s always worth it to cross the entire city to have lunch with him when he volunteers to cook. 

“Thanks,” Dan says, pulling his plate closer to him and taking a first bite, closing his eyes to savor his lunch as it melts away in his mouth. 

“Good?” Nick asks, pulling a chair for himself to sit across from Daniel. 

“Fucking divine.” 

“Great. Now spill.” 

“Spill what?” 

“I know you want to say something. You’re quiet like fuck, there’s something worrying you. What is it?” 

Daniel considers his friend for a moment. “Promise not to tell Martin?” 

“When have I ever shared anything with that gossipy bitch, Danny?” 

Daniel takes the deepest of deep breaths. Nick's quite right: his omelet wasn’t the only reason why he crossed town today. Ever since he left Fernando’s flat, there's this insane desire to continuously bang his head against a wall growing inside of him with such intensity Daniel is starting to worry he might actually go ahead with it and get himself killed. What he needs right now is someone with whom he can be perfectly honest, to get all this guilt off his chest. He needs someone who'll listen to his drama and tell him what to do - tell him the right thing, which is that he's a moron who deserves to burn in hell. Most importantly, he needs someone who can maybe get that message to sink in, because he sure as fuck can't get it through. 

Dan has just done a terrible, terrible thing, twice in a row, and instead of being devastated at his own incapacity of being faithful and the likely demolition of his relationship, he is chirpy and he’s inspired. He wants to _paint_ , nonstop. What the fuck is up with that? 

Objectively, the last 24 hours of his life were nothing more than a monumental fuck-up. First, he got home completely knackered after having sex with a complete stranger in a dirty bathroom stall. You'd think that would be the lowest point of anybody's day - but you'd be wrong. 

Not satisfied, he also felt it was in his right to get pissed at Steve for not being too happy about his appalling state, went on to say a bunch of horrible things, buggered off to the studio so he wouldn’t have to deal with his boyfriend's - very justifiable - dire mood and found out he wanted to paint again. That part could’ve easily been a breach of light into the darkness, if only his sudden inspiration spree wasn’t caused by the bathroom guy, who, as it turns out, he can't quite get out of his head. So instead of going back home to make peace with a very angry Steve, Daniel went back to Mercy, found the guy again and fucked him senseless all night - and then all morning. 

And if all that wasn't quite enough, just to finish it off with a cherry on top, he kicked Steve out of his studio in a rush of panic that maybe he would put two and two together and realize he's been sleeping with an ever bigger dickhead than he imaged and _voila_. 

How To Completely Destroy Your Love Life 101. Daniel could write a book on that shit.

“Are you gonna say something or am I supposed to guess?” Nick asks when he doesn’t say anything. 

He knows it's absolutely terrible, but actually doing all those things did not feel as bad as the thought of saying it all out lout does. _Confessing_. Somehow, bringing someone else into the secret makes it worse, probably because it means he won't be able to pretend none of it happened anymore. As soon as the truth is out there, he can't take it back.

“I slept with someone. A guy I met at Mercy when I was there with Martin the other day," he delivers it all at once.

Nicklas doesn’t even look surprised. “So you did exactly what you said you wouldn’t do,” he comments, not at all fazed, as though he, too, like Martin, had been expecting this to happen. Was Dan really the only one who thought he could go on one night of partying without cheating on Steve? 

He shakes his head at his friend, not yet offended. There's more. “It’s not the worst part.” 

Nick cocks him an intrigued eyebrow. "Oh?"

“I went back there last night and I slept with the guy again.” 

Now he looks impressed. “The same guy?” 

Daniel nods, a little embarrassed. “We went back to his place. I spent the night there.” 

He waits for Nicklas to say something - yell at him, tell him he fucked up, call him crazy, anything - but his friend just stares, vaguely amused, but not nearly as perplexed as Dan needs him to be. Nick is not the person he should be talking to about this; it should be Simon. Simon is the one he goes to when he needs to get a thump on the head. But then Simon is not available, is he? The idiot chose the worst time of all to fuck off back to Denmark. Daniel should start a Google Docs schedule. _'Plans to fuck things up this month - DO NOT LEAVE THE COUNTRY' _.__

__Without Simon, Nick is his only option. The only realistic one, anyway. Martin doesn't even count._ _

__“Say something, Nick.”_ _

__“So… what?” he asks, with a shrug._ _

__“What do you mean, what? I cheated on Steve twice in two days, with the same person. That’s like having a fucking affair.”_ _

__“It’s hardly like having an affair, Danny.”_ _

__“It’s fucking awful!”_ _

__See, he knows it’s awful. It's so obvious, isn't it? He knows that it makes him an asshole to have gone behind Steve’s back for the millionth time after he very specifically agreed to never, ever do anything like that again. He knows all that, but in theory only; in practice, the information simply doesn't register. Daniel doesn’t feel awful, _au contraire_ ; he’s excited and happy and anxious and worried, but not sorry, which should be the first in a series of very apologetic feelings he should be getting right now. _ _

__The worried part is because, deep down, Daniel knows what happened with Fernando wasn’t just a drunken one-night stand. He’s had drunken one-night stands before, he knows what those are like the way he knows the back of his hands. He knew his first night with Steve hadn’t been just a one night thing, he knew he’d be going back for more, just like he knows it now. He’d go as far as to say he specialized in drunken one-night stands, and not proudly so._ _

__Some people are addicted to drugs, some people are addicted to alcohol - Daniel Agger is a serial cheater._ _

__But he stopped it. It had been years since he’d last been with anyone but Steve and he was totally fine with that - until he wasn’t anymore, of course. And then Fernando happened. And Fernando keeps on happening in his head, in an endless loop. His morning after should have been followed by piercing remorse, but instead there was more sex, and conversations, and promises._ _

__That’s not right._ _

__He remembers thinking one night, a few months after he moved in with Steve, as his boyfriend slept soundly next to him after an amazing round of sex, that if he ever cheated on Steve again, it would be for reasons other than his own incapability of keeping it in his pants, and that those reasons would spell trouble. Daniel doesn’t really credit himself for being the most astute person around, but on that one, it’s definitely hats off to him._ _

__He wasn’t drunk. It was no one-night stand. He did not sleep with Fernando just because. He may not have a clue of what the real deal with that guy is, but he knows this: whatever the reason, it speaks of a load of trouble._ _

__“That it is,” Nick agrees. “But then doing it twice doesn’t make it worse than just once. It would’ve been awful either way, considering the very strict terms of your relationship with Steve. He’s gonna be pretty pissed off when he finds out.”_ _

__“He can’t find out.”_ _

__Nick shrugs. “Then just don’t tell him. I won’t say anything to anyone, he’ll never know.”_ _

__Daniel’s face twists into an awkward grimace at the sound of Nick’s very clean, very astute solution. He’s not proud of what he’s done, but he’s no rookie at this; he knows how to cover his tracks and how to get back on Steve’s good side. But this situation is unlike anything that’s ever happened since they started going out; it’s hinting at a whole new set of complications Daniel's not entirely sure how to deal with._ _

__“What’s with the face, Danny?”_ _

__“I… I think I kind of… It’s possible that I… I think I want to see him again.”_ _

__“Fuck, Daniel.” Nick shakes his head and looks at him apologetically._ _

__“I started painting again, Nick!” He gesticulates nervously. “Right after the first time, I went to the studio and it was like bloody magic! I wasn’t even thinking anymore, I just grabbed the brush and it happened. It was almost like all those months of torture never even existed! And after last night… Jesus, it was even worse, Nick.”_ _

__“Well, worse is a relative thing here. You _are_ painting again, after all.” _ _

__“There’s nothing relative about it, it’s a fucking disgrace. How come some complete stranger just parades into my life like that and suddenly everything is right with the world again? That’s not fucking right! Now I can’t stop thinking about him, I can’t stop painting him, and _goddamn it_!” _ _

__"First you defend your reasons to want to see him again, then you get pissed because it makes perfect sense. You have to decide which side you're on here."_ _

__"That's your job. That's why I'm here."_ _

__Nick crosses his arms over his chest and considers Daniel thoughtfully for a moment. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”_ _

__“Something useful. Tell me I’m fucking mental.”_ _

__“I don’t think you’re mental. You’re just confused. Obviously, you're also an ass. And you’re inspired. That's a terrible combination, but it happens, I guess. Sometimes you meet people who are exciting and new and you can’t really help feeling attracted to them. You’ve been with Steve for an awful lot of time. I think it’s only natural that you get interested in people who are not him.” Nick makes a pause. “But then, on the other hand, I do like Steve, so I feel sorry for him.”_ _

__“Are you telling me to keep seeing Fernando?”_ _

__The other man smirks. “Fernando?” he asks, exaggerating on the r’s. “What is he, Latino? I like Latinos.”_ _

__“He’s Spanish.”_ _

__Nick’s smirk immediately descends into a displeased curve. “Oh. Well, I guess he’s not so exciting then.”_ _

__“Nick,” Daniel admonishes._ _

__“Sorry. Look, you have been bitching about your work for months, right? So just enjoy your new painting spree. Work some more, see what happens. You’re probably not even into this guy for real anyway, you’re just infatuated by how he inspires you. It’s like having a muse.”_ _

__Daniel grunts loudly, crumpling a napkin into a little ball and throwing it at Nicklas, who yelps when it hits him square on the forehead. “What the fuck is your problem? If I wanted to be encouraged to cheat I would’ve talked to Martin.”_ _

__“I’m just telling you what I would do if I were you. There’s not need to get violent.”_ _

__“So you’d cheat on Simon, is that what you're saying?”_ _

__“Of course I wouldn’t cheat on Simon.”_ _

__“Then what the fuck, Nick?! Why are you telling me to do it?”_ _

__“I said I’d do that if I were _you_. Simon would kill me if I cheated on him.” _ _

__“What makes you think Steve wouldn’t do the same to me?”_ _

__“Danny, let’s be honest here. How many times have you tested Steve’s patience? Do you even keep count?”_ _

__“It’s different this time, Nicklas! It was his only condition to let me move in with him, that I’d never, ever cheat on him or do drugs again. If he finds out -”_ _

__“You do drugs every single week, Daniel.”_ _

__“It’s just fucking pot. It doesn’t count.”_ _

__“Like Martin sucking you off last Christmas doesn’t count? Have you checked with Steve if blow jobs are not included?”_ _

__Daniel glowers. “You’re not fucking helping me.”_ _

__“Sorry, I’m just trying to understand the rules of your relationship. You seem to have a lot of exceptions.”_ _

__“It’s the kind of relationship that has been going on for four fucking years and that has seen me playing out my entire fill of screw ups already. If I slip again, I’m out.”_ _

__“Well, it seems to me like you shouldn’t have slipped, then.”_ _

__“You’re a fucking useless prick, Nick. That’s not what I came here for.”_ _

__“Do you want me to say that you have to stop seeing that guy? Fine. Daniel, you have to stop seeing him. Is that better?”_ _

__“I want you to fucking mean it, you asshole!” Daniel scrubs a hand over his face, groaning in frustration. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm his nerves down a little. “I can’t do this to Steve,” he starts again after a moment. “I can’t see Fernando again. Ever. I need to get him out of my head.”_ _

__Nicklas nods. “Great, sounds like you have a plan.”_ _

__“It’s not a fucking plan. I don’t know how I’m going to get him out of my head, I just know that I have to.” He pauses. “I love Steve,” he says, emphatically, more to himself than to anyone else. He really does love Steve, but in the last 48 hours that very strong, deep-rooted feeling is not something that has exactly been on the forefront of his mind. He has to stop and force himself to remember, otherwise he just gets completely overwhelmed by thoughts of Fernando._ _

__What kind of love is that that you need to remind yourself of it?_ _

__“I know.”_ _

__“I really fucking love him.”_ _

__“I know, Dan.”_ _

__“I don’t think you do, you just gave me a green card to cheat on him.”_ _

__“Since when am I allowed to give you green cards to do anything? That’s something you have to sort out with your conscience. I just said that maybe you should try to figure out what’s going on with that guy.”_ _

__“Stop saying that, Nick! I can’t!”_ _

__“Then just don’t fucking do it!”_ _

__“I won’t! I love Steve and I won’t cheat on him again!”_ _

__“Great!” They stop shouting at each other and Nick smiles. “I really am on Steve’s side, though,” he adds._ _

__“Yeah. That’s decided then.”_ _

__“Good for you.”_ _

__Daniel picks up his cutlery again and points a knife to Nick. “If you so much as mention Fernando’s name in Martin’s presence you are a fucking dead bitch.”_ _

__Nick puts his palms up in the air. “Fernando who?”_ _

__“Good. That psycho would never let me hear the end of it.” He starts cutting his food again with a lot more hostility than strictly necessary, making the knife scratch against the plate._ _

__“You don’t have to ruin the little dishware I have, you know. I just made you the fucking omelet.”_ _

__“Shut up, Nick,” Dan says, and stuffs his mouth with omelet._ _

__x-x-x_ _

__Daniel can hear Steve shouting in his office all the way from the living room._ _

__It’s not such an uncommon thing, he often shouts on the phone whenever he takes work home, but still. It’s not exactly a good omen if Steve’s already pissed off before Daniel even dares to start a conversation. He’ll likely be a lot worse in about five minutes._ _

__Daniel can’t help but think that all his coworkers are mostly useless pricks, since Steve’s shouted to every one of them at least once - bar Stevie. Steve shouts at Stevie too, but it’s never because of work, which has made Dan spend the better part of the last four years being jealous._ _

__Stevie and Steve (isn’t it just awful? No wonder they broke up, you can’t date someone who has the same name as you, it’s just ridiculous) haven’t slept together in a million years (as far as Daniel knows, anyway), but they sure act as though they’re still together. Daniel’s pretty sure Stevie hates him, although that has never been openly declared. Not that he can really blame the guy; he can see how Stevie might think he’s not exactly the right person for his best friend. Not even he thinks he’s the right person for Steve; he can hardly expect to convince anyone else of that when even he can't believe it. Besides, his friends aren’t exactly Steve’s number one fans either. They’re just too different; Steve wears suits, drinks expensive wine and collects Italian shoes while his friends collect overdoses, can’t tell vodka from ethanol and still live like college students, even though none of them have ever been to college. Well, Simon has. He graduated too. But it was arts school at Liverpool Community College - not exactly the same thing as studying law at Cambridge, is it?_ _

__“No, no - No, that’s not - I don’t need - Will you shut up and listen to what I’m saying for a fucking second?! That contract needs to be finalized by Monday. I don’t need you to go over the Mourinho case again. What I need you to do is get me the fucking documents I asked for yesterday and have them waiting for me on my desk by tomorrow at 7. Is that clear? Yes, of course it’s A.M., for fuck’s sake! Just have the goddamn thing there and don’t make me call you again or it’ll be to get your fucking arse on the street.” He hangs up and nearly throws his cell phone on the wall, but gives up and leaves it on his desk instead. “Fucking useless interns. Jesus,” Steve mutters._ _

__He still hasn’t noticed Daniel standing by the door. The Dane meant to go home as soon as he left Nick’s place, but ended up back at his studio instead. He just wasn't ready to face Steve yet, needed a few more minutes (or hours) to prepare for the occasion, so he went back to the painting he'd been working on. For the last few months, painting had become a torment. The mere thought of it made Daniel stressed out and snappy, bordering on the unbearable. Now, though, just a couple of days after meeting Fernando, he's rediscovering how relaxing and therapeutic painting can be. It's just him, his brush and a canvas. His brain completely shuts out the rest of the world for as long as he's focusing on his art, nothing gets to him, nothing else matters. It's comforting and liberating to be able to get back in his bubble, his tiny little world._ _

__Daniel managed shake off all his Steve problems, but he couldn't shake off Fernando, though. He was the one thing in Dan's head; his face, his freckles, his kisses, the way he smiled from his desk when Daniel woke up this morning, or how he bit his lips and whispered Daniel's name as they fucked... That's what motivated Daniel's creative spree; it's what was subconsciously commanding his wrists as he attacked the canvas. Once he was done, he took a step back to inspect the finished product and realized that part of him was hoping to hate it. That would certainly put an end to that whole Fernando witchcraft. If he hated the painting, it would mean it was just a whim, a mistake, a stupidity that should never be addressed, ever again. He didn't hate it, though. Quite the opposite. He can't be certain until he gets another opinion, but he thinks it might be his best work to date, at least top three, which is a hell of an accomplishment after such a long hiatus._ _

__Except... except fuck it. It doesn't make him feel any better to finally have finished a good piece of work again. All Dan can think is how much that piece of canvas and ink right there can hurt Steve. It's a testament to yet another betrayal in an already long list of misbehaviors. It could be the final one. And the worst part is that, right now, Dan doesn't think he feels as bad about as he probably should. What the fuck is wrong with him? How can he let someone he met just two nights before take over him like his? He can't _unlove_ Steve that fast, for certain. They've been together for four years, for fuck's sake. That's like a million decades in gay years. _ _

__After battling himself for the longest time, Daniel decided not to call Fernando and not to fulfill the promise to let him know if he decided the painting was good enough. It wasn't an easy battle, though. His fingers hovered over the phone screen at least ten times before he shoved the damn thing in his pocket and gave up. He had to make a choice and he chose Steve._ _

__That's the right thing to do. Even if his heart keeps telling him otherwise._ _

__He told himself a million times on the way home that he would get that bloody Spaniard out of his head and that’s exactly what he intends to do. It shouldn’t be too hard, right? He knows nothing about Fernando. A name and a couple of preferences in bed says nothing about a person. Steve, on the other hand, Daniel knows from the inside out. They're not exactly soul mates, but they work out pretty well. Or they have, for the past four years. Well, when Daniel wasn't doing something idiotic, anyway. Steve is great. Steve is perfect. Steve is the right one for him._ _

__Steve is great. Steve is perfect. Steve is the right one for him. He went home repeating those words like a mantra. If he does that enough times maybe he'll manage to block out all things Fernando eventually._ _

__Steve has his face buried in his hands when Dan sneaks up behind him and squeezes his shoulders lightly. The man jumps in his seat, startled, and pushes him away violently._ _

__“Jesus Christ, Daniel!” he bellows, swirling the chair around to look at him, eyes wide and electric. “Don’t fucking do that! You scared me.”_ _

__“Sorry.” He takes a step backwards, palms in the air apologetically. “You don’t have to be so jumpy, though. Who else would it be?”_ _

__“I don’t know who would it be, but I wasn’t expecting you,” he snaps._ _

__“Should I have called to say I was coming home?”_ _

__Steve exhales and turns his back to Dan again. “Maybe.”_ _

__“Don’t you want me here?”_ _

__He is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know.”_ _

__Dan feels his heart sinking a little bit. “I can go back to the studio if you -”_ _

__“You’re already here, Daniel. Doesn’t matter.”_ _

___Doesn’t matter._ Daniel wants to revolt against Steve’s apparent lack of interest, but reckons he deserves every bit of metaphorical slap to the face he might get, perhaps the non-metaphorical types as well, so instead he says, “Ok”, albeit knowing very well that a simple ‘Ok’ is not going to make anything better. He ought to have something more to say if he means to fix things with his boyfriend._ _

__“Don’t sit there!” Steve yells as he motions to move the papers spread over the couch to sit down and think of something smart. Dan freezes in his position and looks back at his boyfriend. “I need those papers to stay exactly the way they are, I’ve been working on this all night. Don’t touch anything.”_ _

__Feeling beaten and tired, Daniel sighs. “Fine,” he says, resignedly. “But we need to talk, Steve.”_ _

__“Not now.”_ _

__“Yes, now.”_ _

__“I’m busy, Daniel,” Steve replies, frostily, and turns back to his computer._ _

__“Are you punishing me for what happened today at the studio? I already said I was sorry and I didn’t mean to kick you out. I freaked out because I was working again for the first time in months. You know I fucking hate it when people show up there unannounced.” A half-truth doesn't necessarily constitute a half-lie, right? He's not telling the whole story, but he's not being untruthful either. Not about that part, at least._ _

__“I’m not _people_ , Daniel!” Steve shouts, slamming his hands down on the desk, but not turning around. “You know what, whatever. I’m not punishing you, I’m trying to work. You understand that, right? Leave me alone.” _ _

__Feeling increasingly frustrated and inexplicably mad at Steve, even though he's got absolutely no right whatsoever (probably because he knows that if Steve remains cold and pissed at him, the harder it will be to make peace, and the harder it is to make peace, the guiltier Daniel will feel and the more he'll consider his options, which is not at all something he wants to be doing right now), Daniel pulls his boyfriend’s chair away from the desk, drags him to the middle of the room and swirls him around to face him, keeping a hold on the chair’s arms and encaging Steve in his seat to make sure he has no choice but to listen. “Shut up,” he says, firmly, before the Irishman has enough time to protest. Now, this is a very risky strategy; Steve might just get up and punch his nose now and he will still be holding the righteous torch. But desperate times require desperate measures, so here is his: being a prick to force his boyfriend to _talk_ to him because fucking hell, he's trying to bloody apologize! _ _

__“I’m sorry, ok? I was a fucking asshole to you and I know that and I am fucking sorry. I didn’t want to upset you, Steve, but I did and I can’t do anything but apologize. And you can’t do anything but forgive me.”_ _

__“What if I don’t want to forgive you?”_ _

__“Don’t you?”_ _

__“Maybe.”_ _

__“Well, you have to.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Because I love you. And don’t you dare tell me that I don’t mean it, or I’ll fucking hit you, I swear to God.” He makes a pause, looks away from Steve’s dark, grey eyes for a moment, then back again. “I’m an idiot, Steve. I’ve always been an idiot. But I love you.”_ _

__Daniel was hoping that that piece of information, said in the most truthful way he could manage as to not make Steve think he’s lying again, would cheer the other man up a bit, soften his eyes and register somewhere on his face, but Steve still looks blank and quiet. After a while, he says, “Fine,” and leaves it at that._ _

__“Fine?” Dan asks in a tone of disbelief. “Fine. That’s all you have to say?”_ _

__“What do you want me to say?”_ _

__“I don’t know, Steve! Anything you want.”_ _

__“I want to say ‘fine’.”_ _

__“You don’t fucking mean ‘fine’. You’re just saying it. You don’t look fine, nothing looks fine. Stop fucking saying shit you don’t mean, isn’t that what you told me?”_ _

__Steve studies him for a moment. “Your night out with Martin got you painting again, then.” It’s not a question._ _

__“Steve…”_ _

__“Am I wrong?” he cuts him off._ _

__Daniel wants to say ‘yes’, but he’s lying about enough things already. “No.”_ _

__“Good for you, then.”_ _

__“What is that even supposed to mean?”_ _

__“Isn’t that you wanted? Now you have it. You’re painting.”_ _

__“I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”_ _

__“I didn’t want to be mad at you either, but I can’t help it. You did God knows what at Mercy, you disappeared on me and then you kicked me out of your studio when I dropped by to check if you were still alive when you should’ve been the one checking up on me.”_ _

__“I know. And I’m sorry.”_ _

__Steve is quiet for a second, and then he asks, very solemnly, “Did you sleep with Martin again?”_ _

__Daniel feels his throat clamping up, but he tries to remain as impassive as he possibly can. “Of course not,” he replies, seriously. “I didn’t.”_ _

__Steve is not entirely convinced, but he makes a sound of agreement and shrugs. “Fine.”_ _

__“Fine what?”_ _

__“Fine, I accept your apologies.”_ _

__“Really?” Dan grins, relieved._ _

__“I’m not going to stop being mad at you right now, but whatever.”_ _

__Daniel leans over and places a soft kiss on Steve’s cheek - he’d go for the lips, but he fears it might be too soon for that. It’s probably best that he doesn’t push his luck just yet. And anyway, Steve turns his face to the side to make sure he wouldn’t be getting anywhere near his mouth, his expression still hollow._ _

__“I need to finish my work now, Daniel,” Steve says, pushing him away lightly this time._ _

__“All right.” The Dane finally steps away and lets go of his chair. “I won’t disturb you anymore. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.”_ _

__“Ok,” Steve says, then turns his back to him once more and goes back to work._ _

__Daniel suppresses a sigh and walks out. Steve won’t be needing him tonight, he knows. Maybe he won’t even go near their bedroom. He'll probably be spending the night alone in that bed, which is not ideal in the current state of things. Dan could really use being close to Steve right now, if anything at least to remind himself of how much he loves his boyfriend, how good it feels to be with him, near him, to have him in his arms and know that he's safe and sound, in their _home_. But he can’t exactly make demands here, can he? The ball's in Steve's court now and all Daniel can do is hope that he won't take too long being angry. _ _

__The Dane's stinging with remorse, as he always is when he sees the state in which his fuck-ups leave Steve. Still, there’s a little burning feeling at the pit of his stomach he can’t quite get rid of. It can’t be this bad, right? There’s no way. He’s known the guy for two days, it’s impossible that he’s already missing him._ _

__Getting Steve to forgive him this time has to have been the hardest part. All he needs to do now is make sure he gets Fernando out of his head and everything will be back to normal. It sounds fairly simple. Fernando is nothing more than an obsession. Like when you desperately want a new pair of sneakers or a new tattoo._ _

__That’s all it is. He’s sure he'll be over that in the blink of an eye. Definitely._ _

__x-x-x_ _

__“Xabi?”_ _

__“Yes?”_ _

__“Can I ask you a question?”_ _

__Xabi looks up from the contract in his hands to a restless Fernando. His face is deeply wrought with an expression, like he’s feeling pain somewhere._ _

__“Sure,” he says, putting the papers down to pay him proper attention. Fernando came back to the office to discuss the terms of their contract and they’ve been sitting in silence for twenty minutes as Xabi double checks every detail to make sure there’s nothing wrong with it. He’s had way too many experiences with unsatisfied authors who changed their minds about their contracts later on and picked up on the smallest breaches to cause him all sorts of trouble. There are lawyers out there who feed on that sort of stuff._ _

__If he didn't have one at home, Xabi would definitely put all lawyers under the category of Things I Hate The Most In The World. It's ironic, to say the least, that he ended up married to one._ _

__Not that he thinks Fernando will be that kind of author. Years and years in the business and he has sort of learned how to identify the potentially problematic ones just by looking at them - lately, he’s been turning all of them down or assigning them to some other editor. Xabi's just too old for that kind of thing. He wants his work to be just as pleasurable as the rest of his life, not stressful. Fernando seems to be a good kid, though. And he comes with many good references from good friends in Spain. Xabi doubts he’ll be getting on his black list._ _

__“It’s not a work-related question,” Fernando explains. “It’s a personal question. Like an opinion, really. I want an opinion.”_ _

__Intrigued, Xabi crosses his legs and slumps back against his chair. “Ok,” he says. “I’m listening.”_ _

__“Well…” Fernando starts, stops, looks away from him, presses his lips into a very thin line. “I met someone. A guy.”_ _

__Xabi grins. “Oh!”_ _

__“At Mercy.”_ _

__He frowns. “Oh…”_ _

__“You made a face,” Fernando says, seemingly terrified at the obvious dismal in his voice. “What’s with the face?”_ _

__Xabi considers explaining the whole concept of Mercy to him, but figures it’s probably better to know the context of his story first. “Let’s hear your question first.”_ _

__“Ok…” Fernando shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “So. This guy. I met him at Mercy. And we… Well, we… We…”_ _

__"Had sex.”_ _

__Fernando scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. “Yeah. Sex - God, it’s so weird to say it in front of you. Are you sure we’re allowed to discuss that?”_ _

__“Just go on, Fernando.”_ _

__“Right. Ok. So. We had sex. Right away. And the first time was very casual.”_ _

__Xabi cocks him an eyebrow. “You mean there was a second time?”_ _

__“Yeah… Why?”_ _

__“Nothing, it’s just not something that typically happens with people you meet at Mercy.”_ _

__Fernando breathes out, alleviated. “I figured you’d say that. And I thought so too at first. But then I went back there the following night, wanting to find him, but not really holding my expectations up about it, but he was there! And he said he was hoping to see me too, which is not very common, right? I didn’t think it was, at least. So we went back to mine, we had more sex, he spent the night, we did it again in the morning and then we had breakfast together. And I’m not the kind of person who gets hooked after the first date - or first fuck, or whatever - but I felt something. I felt like… a connection. Something happened. It wasn’t just a regular one-night stand.”_ _

__Xabi takes a moment to let all the information sink in, because Fernando is talking too fast, too exasperated, flailing hands and everything._ _

__“Breakfasts are usually a good sign,” he comments._ _

__“It is, right? I never stay for breakfast with the guys I don’t mean to see again. I’m not imagining things, am I?”_ _

__“Doesn’t sound like it,” Xabi shrugs. “I know the type of guy who usually goes to Mercy and they’re not really into breakfast either. I guess you’re right.” Fernando grins, and Xabi feels a little more relaxed. The moment Fernando mentioned Mercy, Xabi prepared for the worst. He was sure Fernando was going to tell him how he’d met the most amazing man in the world, the guy had fucked him senseless and now he was in love. Xabi can’t tell how many times he’s heard that story; bitches at Mercy will do anything to have a pretty thing like Fernando in their beds. Only a few weeks in England and he was already going to have to break the news to the boy that there was no future whatsoever for his newfound love. And it would kind of be his fault too, because he had been the one to send Fernando there._ _

__But, surprisingly, it's not that bad at all. Fernando’s seen the guy twice, he’s spent some quality time with him... That doesn’t happen very often, so he doesn’t have to break the poor boy’s heart just yet. In fact, there are only two cases of that sort involving Mercy that spring to Xabi’s mind: himself and Stevie and Finns and Daniel._ _

__“Was that your question?”_ _

__“Actually, no. Well, kind of. How desperate do you think it would seem if I called him?”_ _

__“Why do you think it would make you look desperate if you called? I’m assuming he gave you his number, no?”_ _

__“Yeah, we exchanged numbers, but it was sort of implied that _he_ would be calling _me_. He said he had some work thing to sort out and when he was done with that, he’d call me. Except that was a few days ago, almost a week, really, and I still haven’t heard from him,” Fernando says, his initial exasperation descending into a crestfallen whimper. _ _

__Xabi purses his lips a little. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Fernando, when you started you story by mentioning someone you met at Mercy, I didn’t think I’d have good news for you.”_ _

__“Oh,” he says._ _

__“But,” Xabi continues, and Fernando lifts his chin just a bit. “Usually when you pick up someone at Mercy, you don’t end the night with a phone number either. I’m inclined to believe that if he didn’t want to see you again, he wouldn’t have given you his number.”_ _

__“That’s what I’m thinking!” Fernando says, shaking his arms in the air again. “But I don’t want to seem pushy. He said he’d call me, and I don’t want him to think I’m desperate, but I really want to see him again. I don’t know what to do.”_ _

__Xabi takes a deep breath and smiles at Fernando, who gazes back at him puzzled. “When I met my husband, Steven, he promised he’d call me too,” Xabi starts. “We met at Mercy as well. We had a fantastic night, danced, talked, had a blast and then we went back to my flat. He didn’t spend the night, said he had to work early in the morning, so I gave him my number and he left. I didn’t hear from him in days. So after a week, I decided to show up at this place he’d mentioned he used to go for lunch that was close to where I lived at the time. I waited for two hours for him to show up and, when he did, I pretended it was the biggest coincidence in the world and that I wasn’t really interested. He invited me to eat with him, I said yes, and the rest is history.”_ _

__Fernando blinks at him. “Why hadn’t he called you?”_ _

__“He was seeing someone else at the time.” Fernando’s shoulders drop again. “Stevie was honest with me about it, he said he wanted to have called me, but didn’t really have the courage to have an actual affair. The point is, if I hadn’t showed up there, I don’t think we would be together now, and that was six years ago.”_ _

__“So… he broke up with the guy for you after that?”_ _

__“Not immediately. But once it became clear that what we had was more than just a fling, he did. It was awful, because Steven and Finns - that’s the guy who he was with - they were really good friends, had known each other for years. Finns was so pissed off... Steven was devastated.”_ _

__Xabi remembers those days only too well. They were in love, that much was obvious. But that didn’t stop Stevie from being depressed and downcast all the time when Finns refused to take any of his calls. It took Xabi being inappropriately out of character and cornering Finns, who he didn't even know at the time, to make him forgive Stevie for peace to be reinstated. He doesn’t think he would’ve ever been able to make his relationship with Stevie last if he and Finns hadn't started talking again. Stevie simply couldn't forgive himself for betraying his best friend's trust, even for love._ _

__It was a long time before Xabi finally got the grip of how Steven and Stephen work. They have a dynamic all of their own. It's like they are part of a package - you can’t get one without the other, take it or leave it. Their weird married couple-like relationship is not something to be meddled with._ _

__“Everything turned out fine in the end,” Xabi adds, when Fernando stays quiet and pensive. It’s meant to be encouraging, his love story, not worrisome. “We’re really close friends with Finns now. That’s become a story we laugh about.”_ _

__Fernando nods, but still looks totally unconvinced. “Look, what I’m saying is, sometimes you just have to push. What’s the worst that can happen, really? If he tells you he doesn’t want to see you again, you’ll just know he’s an ass and then you can move on.”_ _

__“It makes sense, I guess…” Fernando chews on the inside of his lips. “But I don’t know… Shouldn’t I wait a little longer? What if he gets pissed that I called before he did? What if he thinks I’m clingy?”_ _

__“Well, are you?”_ _

__“No! But that’s exactly why I don’t want to move too fast! I don’t want to scare him away because of something as stupid as a phone call. And I don’t know how things work in this bloody country!” Fernando exhales heavily, frustration evident in the little creases on the corner of his eyes._ _

__Xabi laughs shortly, shaking his head. “It’s not so difficult, Fernando,” he says. “There’s no mystery or secret code. Every case is different, you just have to feel the situation. If you think he seemed like he’d be open for a phone call, then I say go ahead.”_ _

__“Yeah… I should give this a longer thought though.”_ _

__Xabi rolls his eyes at him. “Oh, God. Listen. I’ll tell what we’re gonna do.” Fernando cocks him an eyebrow as Xabi takes a little piece of paper and starts scribbling down his own address. “I’ll have a little get-together tomorrow night at my place. You sound like you need something to distract yourself with. You should come. I’ll introduce you to Steven and some of our friends, you’ll meet new people and maybe you’ll have more on your head than just this guy.” He hands over the paper to Fernando. “If you have more people to spend your time with you’ll stop thinking about it so much and that will either give him time to call you or it’ll give you time to consider whether you want to call him yourself or not. How does that sound?”_ _

__“All right,” Fernando says, finally opening a smile again. “Sounds good, I guess.”_ _

__“Fantastic. It starts about eight. Don’t need to bring anything.”_ _

__“What’s the occasion?”_ _

__“No occasion. Just a random meeting, really. But sounds like the timing is just right for you.”_ _

__Fernando chuckles. “Yeah… Well, thanks. I’ll show up. And I’m sorry for…” he motions his hand in the air, indicating his excessive flailing._ _

__Xabi just shakes his head. He actually thought it was kinda cute, like having a little brother with boy issues. “No problem at all, honey. You can talk to me about anything you want.”_ _

__“Thanks, Xabi.”_ _

__He smiles again, then picks up the contract. “Shall we get this over with, then?”_ _


	6. Say it's not her fault, but you just met somebody new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry about how long it took me to update this one! I intend to keep the chapters coming more frequently now. I apologize for all the mistakes, but as you may or may not remember, English is not my first language and the story has not been beta'ed. :)

When Xabi said ‘a little get-together’, Fernando thought he meant maybe five or six close friends having dinner and chatting away around a table. Ten people at most, if some of the friends brought their partners along. 

Apparently, though, ‘little get-together’ translates into something close to a frat party in Xabi’s vocabulary, only without the loud music and the plastic cups. It's all about enthusiastic smart conversations, posh dress code and the sounds of crystal glasses clinking. There are more people there than Fernando can count, but it’s certainly more than six. Unless all of Xabi’s six friends are in polygamous relationships with ten or more people, that is. 

Someone he’s never seen before opens the door to him and ushers him inside with a sympathetic smile as though Fernando’s a regular, or like they’re literally expecting anyone to show up. “I’m Álvaro”, he says. “Don’t think we’ve met?”

“Uh…” Fernando blinks. “No. I’m Fernando.”

“Nice to meet you, Fernando! Make yourself at home! Drinks at the kitchen! That way,” Álvaro points towards somewhere beyond a bunch of other people, and, with a wink, disappears.

Well. This isn’t exactly what Fernando had in mind. He was expecting Xabi to be there to welcome him, show him around the apartment, do some introductions, get him a place on a table with a small amount of selected people talking of all sorts of interesting things which he would hopefully know a little about to put his two cents in with intelligent remarks that would impress the audience and make him some new, artistic friends. 

Ok, so maybe he went a little too far in how he pictured the night would go. Best case scenario only. But... this? This is not even remotely similar to what Fernando had in mind. Everyone in here looks way too smart for him and a lot more high profile as well, to the point Fernando starts feeling self-conscious about his converse sneakers and old battered jeans. His clothes aren't exactly screaming _success_. You can tell he's not part of the bunch. This is not the free-thinking, eccentric-bordering-on-the-crazy type of artistic crowd he thought they would be. 

It's not that they don't look interesting enough, they do. Not to mention they're likely all involved with the publishing world in some capacity. It's just that, within five minutes of being there and feeling completely invisible, Fernando realizes he's probably not going to be making any friends tonight. 

That leaves him with two very frustrated options: he can either start drinking to at least make the trip worth-wile, or he can turn around and go back home to sulk, tell Xabi he felt sick or something. Frankly, he's more inclined towards the latter, not entirely sure that getting drunk at his new editor's party is going to count him any plus points. But Xabi _is_ his new editor, so it's probably not going to go down very well if he flees either. 

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. He should've thought this through before saying yes to Xabi's invitation. Clearly he's not ready to mingle with Xabi's little club of Cool People. They make him want to grow a beard, for some reason. Only he knows for a fact he looks miserable with a beard. You know you're definitely not fitting into a crowd like this one when even your capacity to grow a beard is limited.

Going with alcohol as his weapon of choice, Fernando starts moving in search of the kitchen. It takes him a while to find it; Xabi has one damn huge apartment. Everything is so tasteful and modern - and _expensive_. Xabi probably makes very good money, but this is the sort of place only _two_ people making very good money can afford, which makes Fernando wonder what Xabi's husband must be like.

The prospect of meeting Xabi's significant other makes him nervous, and not only because Xabi is his boss. Fernando's been a huge Alonso fan girl long before he came to England. Xabi's work, his opinions, his story, even his personal life - absolutely everything about him is inspiration. Working close to him has done nothing to dent that image, quite the opposite; if anything, Fernando thinks he's even greater now. That has led Fernando to wonder, more than once, about the kind of person who has stolen his hero's heart. In his head, this Steven guy is the picture of perfection. Definitely someone very accomplished professionally, probably working in the same business as a writer or a director of some sort. The sort of brilliant mind that always has the perfect thing to say at all times. Fernando imagines him as an older man with white hair and age lines that still preserve a classic sort of beauty, with deep, intelligent eyes. Xabi looks like the kind of person who'd be more attracted to a sharp brain than to a perfectly sculpted body, although his is... Well, Fernando's not gonna go there. It's too inappropriate to be thinking of his boss that way. Suffices to say Xabi is... Very easy on the eye, indeed.

He downs his first beer all at once to quiet down his nervousness and the odd thoughts. Tonight has turned out to be quite the test. These people out there are the kind of people Fernando's always wanted to have around him. Influent, intelligent, knowledgeable. Only he hadn't realized how intimidating an environment like that can be. He's suddenly second-guessing absolutely everything about himself. This isn't just any party; it's _the_ party. If they don't think he's cool enough, if he doesn't fit in, he'll never make it in this industry.

“Fernando!” he hears an enthusiastic voice calling him and turns around to find Xabi with a huge smile plastered all over his face. “I didn’t know you were here already!”

“Hey!" He smiles at Xabi breathing out in relief at finally spotting a familiar face. “Your friend Álvaro let me in.”

“Oh, great! So you already met someone!”

“Not really. He just opened the door and showed me to the kitchen. Very nice of him, by the way.”

Xabi walks past him and grabs two beer bottles. “Come with me, I want to introduce you to Steven.” _Brilliant_ , Fernando thinks, following the other man out of the kitchen.

Xabi leads the way towards the balcony, where the noise disperses and the air becomes considerably less loaded, not to mention colder. There are only two people there, clearly not mingling well with the rest of the guests. Before Xabi even approaches them, Fernando realizes he feels a lot more comfortable out here than he did a second before, inside. 

The men are immerse in such a bright conversation, one of them laughing so hard at what the other one said that he bends over himself a little, that they don't immediately notice their arrival. Xabi stops for a moment and smiles back at Fernando. "They don't even care we're here," he whispers. "Put them in a room together and they don't need anyone else." Fernando frowns a little at the comment, because obviously one of them is Xabi's husband, but the way he says it is not at all bitter. Xabi stares at the two men with soft eyes and a tiny adoring grin on his face.

Fernando takes the pause to observe the duo better. He can see by the way they're dressed that they definitely don't run in the same circles as the other guests. Well-cut trousers, designer shoes, button-up shirts perfectly tucked inside. They're obviously very well dressed as well, but in a completely different manner. They look like successful businessmen rather than hipsters with money. And neither of them is sporting beards, which Fernando notices with happiness. Ten points for team clean shave.

"Come on," Xabi says after a few seconds, once the laughter seems to have died out. One of them, the one who was laughing, with light brown hair and blue eyes, opens his arms and smiles at Xabi, who hands him a bear and places a kiss on his cheek and a hand around his waist. So he's not old and probably not a writer either; he's young and _very_ attractive. In fact, he and Xabi look outrageously good together. Fernando couldn't have been more wrong about him.

Xabi waves him to come closer. “I want to introduce someone. This is Fernando Torres, the new writer I’m working with. He just got here from Spain, doesn’t really know anybody yet. So you two are going to be friends with him from now on. This is Steven, my husband” Xabi says, pulling the man slightly closer to him.

“Hi,” Fernando says, suddenly feeling very self-conscious under the scrutiny of the two men.

Steven smiles fondly and nods towards him. “How‘re you doing, lad?”

“And this well-groomed gentleman is Finns,” Xabi says, stressing the name a little longer.

 _Oh_ , Fernando thinks. It’s the guy he was telling him about before. The best friend turned boyfriend turned ex turned best friend. So Xabi wasn't lying when he said the three of them got along very well, even after all that mess. The way he looked at the two of them before - it was affectionate and understanding, like he gets completely that his husband shares some sort of special bond with this other man and there's just nothing he can do about it. Who, by the way, is not at all bad looking. On the contrary. Finns has an angular face, with high cheek bones and a strong jaw that give him the looks of a movie star of the 40s or 50s.

“Nice to meet you,” Finns offers, with a charming smile.

“ _The_ Finns, then,” he comments.

“The Finns?” he cocks up an eyebrow and turns to Xabi.

“I was telling him yesterday about how Steven and I met,” Xabi explains, placing a kiss on Stevie’s neck. The Englishman gives Finns a funny look and chuckles into his beer. Finns rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“Xabi loves to tell that story,” Steven says.

“Yes, because it makes him look bloody irresistible while I just look stupid,” Finns adds.

“Or I look like a whore while you look like the good guy who got played," Xabi counters.

“No one ever comes out as a whore if they end up marrying the person they stole, Xabier,” Finns replies, matter-of-factly. 

“Yes, it doesn’t count as whore-ism if it’s love,” Steven nods. “Don’t you agree, mate?”

It takes Fernando a moment to notice Steven is talking to him, and he only does so when he realizes that they have all shut up and are staring at his face. There’s such a strange chemistry between the three of them that Fernando got a little mesmerized watching. He can’t decide whether he feels awkward standing there or if the just wants to stay and let them continue their conversation as if he weren’t. “Sure,” he answers. “You’re not a slut if you fall in love.”

“My point exactly.” Finns raises his beer in Fernando’s direction in appreciation for his agreement.

Xabi just shrugs. “Well, I remember you calling me a whore a few dozen times.”

“Whore was the lightest in a long list of names I used to address you, Xabi. You stole my man, it was a matter of honor blackening you.”

Steven’s mouth curves into a self-satisfied, million-dollar kind of grin. “And what you can conclude from all that, Fernando, and this is your first lesson as our new friend, is that the irresistible one is actually me.”

“And he’s not even ashamed to say that out loud, in front of people he just met,” Finns says, shaking his head.

“Steven.” Xabi takes his arm away, deadpanning. “What have we discussed about you not embarrassing me in front of my guests?”

He shrugs, nonchalantly, taking another swig from his bottle. “Just saying.”

“Next time I’ll pretend I’m married to Finns. He behaves better.”

Finns smiles devilishly. “I could do that.”

“Already told you that whenever you want a taste of Xabi, we’re open for threesome negotiations.”

Fernando has to try his best to keep from laughing, something that Finns gives little concern to, throwing his head back as he bursts into merry-eyed laughter.

Xabi looks at Fernando trying to seem dejected, but he can tell the other man wants to join in as well. “I’m really sorry you had to witness that, Fernando.” Xabi leaves Steven’s side to stand shoulder to shoulder with him again. “He usually has more reservations about offering me to other people. I think he probably already had a bit too much to drink.”

“That’s not even true,” Steven replies.

“Well, to sum up Finns’ story,” Xabi continues. “As you probably noticed, we all love each other now. We don’t sleep together, though.”

“But we could…”

“Shut up, Steven,” Xabi says. “I love Finns, anyway. He was our best man. Steven - it depends. Right now, not so much. Sometimes I think I might’ve married the wrong one.”

“You weren’t so bad once I got to know you.” Finns shrugs. “Stealing other people’s boyfriends aside.”

“I only did that once.”

“Well, thank God for that. I don't think there would be much of a case for you if stealing my boyfriends had become a recurrent thing.”

“Fair enough,” Xabi agrees. “Speaking of boyfriends, where is yours?”

The moment Xabi mentions Finns’ boyfriend, something in him changes. He looks down at his own beer, the cheery curve of his lips descending into a firm line as distinct creases appear between his eyebrows. Steven shifts uncomfortably next to his friend and sends Xabi a look that is definitely saying something, although Fernando can’t really tell what. 

“He said _maybe_ he’d show up. Which means he’s not coming,” Finns offers, curtly.

“What’s keeping him busy?”

“I wish I knew. God knows what goes through his head lately. I don’t even ask anymore. Questions only lead to bitching and I’m frankly sick of that, so I just leave him to his own business.”

“Why is there an attractive person in this group that I haven’t been introduced to yet?” 

They all turn to see the man who just joined them at the balcony. The first thing to strike Fernando about him is that he’s got very dubious taste for clothing, different from the other guests, and yet very far from Steven and Finns. White skinny jeans, very tight black shirt and sneakers that glow in the dark. The plus size of his dress code, however, is that it makes no mystery whatsoever of how perfectly well sculpted his muscles are.

The man stops next to him and Fernando feels almost naked under his scrutiny. “Hello,” he says, fixing his eyes exclusively on the Spaniard, not at all bothering with the rest of the group.

“You can smell good looking people, can’t you? It’s like Xabi just walked in with a pizza,” Finns says, and then turns to Fernando. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Just ignore him, Fernando, he’ll eventually go away,” Steven tells him.

“Fernando?” the man says, eying him curiously. “Is that Spanish?”

“Yes. I’m from Madrid.”

“Well, hello, Fernando from Madrid,” the guy offers him a firm handshake. “I’m Sergio, from Sevilla.” He keeps a hold of Fernando’s hand for just a second longer than strictly necessary.

“Be nice, will you, Sergio? He just got here,” Xabi says.

“When am I ever not nice?”

“I noticed you’re trying to flirt with him, so do you really want us to start talking about that?” Steven asks.

“He’s gonna run away scared,” Finns says. “I would.”

“Well, he’s not going to run away scared, because Sergio is not going to flirt with him.” Xabi moves around Fernando and pushes Sergio gently away to stand between the two of them. The Sevillan gives him an eye roll.

“I’m not easily scared,” Fernando shrugs.

Sergio smirks. “Tough, are you? I like that.”

“Oh, God,” Finns says, making way through them. “I’ll go get myself more beer,” he announces and disappears inside the flat.

“I’ll come with!” Steven says, placing a quick kiss on Xabi’s lips before following the other man.

“Still following each other around like two little puppies?” Sergio asks, turning to Xabi.

“They never stopped.”

“Why don’t you go with them?”

“I’m not leaving Fernando with you unsupervised.”

“You leave your husband with Finns unsupervised but you won’t leave you lovely guest with me? Where are your priorities, Alonso?”

“I’d trust Steven stark naked in a locked room with Finns before I trust Fernando with you.”

“Xabi -"

“Don’t even give me that look, Sergio. Fernando’s my writer, you don’t get to mess with people I work with. That’s a rule.”

“I just want to talk! What’s the matter with talking?”

“It’s never just talking with you. Come on, Fernando.” Xabi grabs him by the arm and starts pulling him towards the inside of the apartment. “Let’s go meet some new people.”

Sergio stares at them with his arms open and his jaw dropped. Fernando would gladly stay and chat with him, but he’s not about to go against Xabi. Instead, he offers the guy an apologetic grin.

Once they’re away from Sergio’s sight, Fernando comments, “He seemed nice.”

“He’s incredible,” Xabi replies. “I love Sergio, really. But this is not the right time for you to properly meet him.”

“Why not?”

“Because Sergio doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself around nice-looking things and I could already see it in his eyes all the improper ideas he was coming up with.”

“Xabi,” Fernando starts, stopping in front of his boss. “I think this is probably the right time for me to tell you that I’m not a virgin anymore,” he deadpans.

Xabi seems almost offended. “I know,” he counters, like someone who just got caught doing something wrong. Fernando hasn’t spent enough time around here, but Xabi’s soft-spoken manners and kind eyes suggest he has a very strong nurturing instinct about him. Probably something he developed from being around his husband, who seems to be the complete opposite.

“I’m not an innocent boy either,” Fernando completes. “I know my way around guys like that.”

“Well, do you want to go talk to him? He’s going to be all over you.”

Fernando shrugs. “I’m not saying I want to, just… I don’t mind. He’s not going to do anything funny unless I want him to, is what I’m saying. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Xabi rolls his eyes. “Of course he’s not. God, he’s not a rapist. But, Fernando -” he sighs. “You’re my protégé now, and that means I’m going to guide you around this madness. Maybe you’re used to guys like that, but you’re still new here. I’m especially going to protect you from my friends with a larger inclination towards being bastards because I don’t want you getting upset if I can avoid it. Sergio is lovely once he doesn’t want to sleep with you anymore, but until he gets that out of his system, it’s impossible to be around him, trust me.”

Fernando chuckles, recognizing the voice of personal experience in Xabi’s speech.

“Anyway,” the older man continues. “It can be very inconvenient to have him around you in a party where you don’t really know anyone, because it’s easier for him to corner you and you might get uncomfortable, and that’s not why I brought you here tonight. Besides, you’re still trying to figure things out with that Mercy guy, aren’t you?”

Fernando feels his insides churn at the thought of Daniel. “Yes.”

“Then you definitely want to avoid Sergio trouble whilst you do that. He’s the resident DJ at the club.”

Fernando’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“Ok, you convinced me,” Fernando puts his hands up in resignation. “No Sergio trouble.”

“Good,” Xabi grins. “Now come with me. I want to properly introduce you to Álvaro. He works as a screenwriter now, but he has several published works. I think you’ll like to talk to him.”

“Isn’t he another one of you man-eater friends?”

Xabi snorts loudly. “Álvaro?! Not by far!” he shakes his head. “You’d be laughing at that if you knew him. He’s blindingly faithful to his boyfriend, who mostly lives in Spain, but spends some time here every now and again. It’s really touching how they keep their relationship going, I don’t think I could go for months without seeing Steven. Oh, there he is!” Xabi says, waiving his hand in the air for the guy who opened the door to Fernando.

x-x-x

When his wrist starts aching, his legs, begging for mercy, and he simply can’t find a position that is comfortable enough anymore, Daniel decides to hear the cry for help his body is sending him and get some rest.

The past week existed only in concept; hours were stretching out into days, the days into weeks. It’s never-ending, like an eternal déjà-vu. And the worst part is that he’s been stuck in a crazy auto-pilot, non-stop mode. Daniel spent, in the last week or so, at least 20 hours of his days at the studio. He made an effort to go home, even if just for a quick nap and a shower, if anything then to make sure Steve knew he was still alive, but there were times when his mind was so worn out that it simply shut down, and then he’d pass out on the old mattress he still keeps at the studio for emergencies (namely, for when he screws up with Steve and needs to find somewhere to crash at night). 

That first painting he started right after his first night with Fernando turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg; suddenly, Daniel is painting again, as in he’s still doing it, continuously, and insanely so, compensating for all the months of creative coma. 

Understandably, Steve is not exactly happy about it. He really tried to be, Daniel has to give him credit for the effort. In the first few days he seemed honestly remorseful for feeling the way he feels, which is forsaken and ticked off. Now, though, Steve doesn’t even bother flaunting his resentment about.

The Dane can’t exactly blame him; this whole creative spree trails back to something awful. Well, Daniel knows it’s supposed to be just awful, but he can’t help but feel it was also shockingly prodigious, as he’s living off of the effects of his betrayal until now. But the real aggravating part is that, after sleeping with someone else, he simply disappeared from his own home. When Steve leaves for work, if Daniel’s even there, he’s passed out on the bed; when Steve gets back, he's already gone. No more dinners, no more sexy times, no more nothing. They just literally lie side by side in bed for a few hours, not even touching. It’s no wonder Steve has his pants in a twist.

Daniel could really use having a quiet night in for a change, eight or twelve hours of sleep and everything, but he decides to humor Steve a little bit. Showing up at his friends’ get-together will probably settle down the cold war between the two of them, at least for a while. Plus, there’s always good booze at the Gerrard-Alonso household, and he usually gets a golden star for trying to be civilized around Steve’s better-half - which is Stevie, of course. The fact he’s only doing this out of some misguided attempt to appease him or apologize is irrelevant. It’s not the intention that counts here, it’s the action.

He’s pretty sure he remembers Steve saying it would be a ‘small, intimate thing’, but he can hear the sound of laughter and glasses clicking all the way from the elevator. When Stevie opens the front door to him, what Dan sees inside is a real party - well, a Gerrard-Alonso real party anyway. There is no loud music, no club lights, no half-naked oily-skinned men or glittery things sparkling everywhere. Martin would still qualify it as a funeral, but there is certainly a hell of a lot of people.

“Daniel!” Stevie says, trying to sound enthusiastic - he too has signed the truce deal for Steve’s sake. “Hey. Come on in.”

He makes room for Dan to step in, but doesn’t shut the door. “Is this what you lot call ‘small and intimate’?”

“That’s all Xabi,” he says, rolling his eyes. “He’s Spanish,” he adds, like that explains everything. “Finns said you weren’t coming.”

“I said maybe.”

“He said maybe means no.”

“Maybe means maybe.”

Stevie blinks. “Ok. Fine. Good. Finns is here somewhere, I lost him a while ago. I need to go get more booze before they start drinking my good stuff. Excuse me.” With a little smile, Stevie walks around him and leaves.

Daniel takes a quick once over and decides that finding Steve is not going to be an easy task. Xabi seems to be friends with every queer in town, except for the ones he knows. He walks around a little bit, goes to the bedroom and back, and there’s still no sign of his boyfriend. He’s had to apologize to five people for accidentally bumping into them and two for stepping on their feet and he’s already starting to think it was a mistake to show up in the current state of exhaustion he’s in when he sees someone who may or may not be Steve, but looks close enough, disappearing into the kitchen.

The Dane immediately makes his way back through the crowded space, but then stops at the sight of a very familiar blond head. He’s standing next to some paintings, talking to Ramos - Ramos! How the fuck does he know Ramos?! - and at first Daniel thinks it’s just someone who really looks like him, because it can’t be him. It just can’t. It’s impossible. This is the last place he could be at. There’s no way he knows Stevie. _Just no way._

Daniel stops, frozen in his own spot, watching the two men. When he smiles at something Ramos says and tilts his head back just a little, it knocks the air out Daniel’s lungs. The entire room starts spinning around and Dan’s not sure whether it’s just exhaustion, but he feels like he's about to pass out.

What the fuck is Fernando doing at Steve’s best friend’s home?

After the initial paralyzing shock, something like a huge sense of urgency or desperation hits him like a train. As Fernando begins to turn his face into his direction, Daniel swirls around and runs. He doesn’t care who he’s bumping into, whose feet he’s stepping on - he just needs to get the hell out of there.

He only breathes again when the front door falls closed behind him.

_Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ._

x-x-x

Álvaro’s boyfriend turns out to be completely insane. Well, not insane, insane. He’s ok, Fernando reckons, seems like a nice guy and all. But after taking part on a twenty minutes conversation with the two of them where the only person who spoke was Gonzalo, Fernando wonders if that man has ever not had anything to say. Gonzalo is Argentinean, extremely lively and just so, so loud. He’s that kind of independent and self-assured person who doesn’t need anyone else for anything - not even conversations. He tells the jokes, he laughs at the jokes and then he adds a follow-up remark. Álvaro stares at him with adoringly loving eyes during the whole thing; Fernando thinks this is probably how most things go for the two of them - Gonzalo does all the talking while Álvaro looks in awe.

How they manage to make a long-distance relationship work makes perfect sense now. Long-distance is the only way Fernando can see this working, actually. He’d be more surprised if the pair of them could live together and still make it functional.

Fernando really wants to hear more about Álvaro’s experience as a writer in Liverpool, but he soon realizes they're never going to have a chance to talk about any of it with Gonzalo around. Fernando’s never had so much information bounced over at him in such a short span, so after twenty minutes of listening to Gonzalo discussing absolutely everything and nothing at all at the same time, he excuses himself and decides he’ll try reaching Álvaro again once his boyfriend is back in Spain - with all due respect, of course.

Fernando gets himself another beer - he sure as hell needs one after that - and goes back to the living room, making sure to keep a safe distance from the high-on-sugar Argentinean as to not be sucked back into his monologues.

“There you are,” someone says next to him, and Fernando sees Sergio approaching with that big, toothy and flirtatious grin back on his face. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He wonders how bad it would look if he just turns around and walks away, but he’s got no idea where Xabi’s gone to and leaving Sergio here could mean going back to Gonzalo’s never-ending tales, so he decides to take his chances with the man-eater instead.

“Thought Xabi told you to stay away?” he asks, only half joking, but Sergio laughs, so Fernando thinks he probably didn’t pick up on the not-joke half.

“Yeah, I thought he’d locked you in his closet or something.”

Fernando shrugs. “I was right here.”

“Look, whatever it is that he told you about me, it’s really not as bad as you think.”

“ _As_ bad?” He cocks Sergio an eyebrow. “So you admit that it _is_ bad?”

“Well…” Sergio starts, smirking, and Fernando notices that he is indeed a very charming guy. He can see how Xabi was so worried about leaving him alone with his friend, in spite of his certainty that there is not a chance of anything happening. Xabi has probably heard the same thing from many people who went on to prove not to have such a strong resolve after all once they did get alone with Sergio. “I’ll admit to have a reputation that is not entirely based on myths. But you know what those things are like. Little things turn into giant snow balls once people start gossiping about them. Xabi’s just over-zealous.”

“Actually, he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.”

“Oh, he does,” Sergio says, as lewdly as anyone ever could. “But I’m not going to jump you, if that’s what Xabi made you think. I’m not a maniac.”

“Didn’t think you were.”

“Especially not at crowded places.”

“So I should only avoid being alone with you?”

“You shouldn’t avoid me at all.”

Fernando tries to hold his laughter but only manages it for a second. He’s about to open his mouth to say something when he spots a very familiar figure across the room. It was just for a second, and then the guy turned around and disappeared behind the other guests, but Fernando could swear…

But it can’t be, can it? It’s just too much of a coincidence. It just can’t be. Impossible. 

“Fernando?”

He blinks out of his daze, turns back to Sergio. “What?”

“You look distracted.”

“What? No. I mean. Yes.” He shakes his head quickly. “Sorry. I think I saw someone I know. Could you excuse me for a second? I’ll be right back.”

He leaves his beer with Sergio and doesn’t even wait for a reply, just dashes forward, towards the door. It’s highly unlikely that he’s right, it was probably just one of Xabi’s hipster friends and then he’ll feel stupid for following someone who looks like Daniel, but he can’t _not_ follow the person. It’s pathetic, really, that he’s already seeing the guy everywhere after only one proper night with him.

Ridiculous or not, he’s not going to settle down if he doesn’t confirm it.

x-x-x

_Come on, come on, come on…_

Daniel rushes down the hallway, pressing the elevator button a million times, but the goddamn thing is stuck somewhere and what’s the use of being rich if your fucking elevator doesn’t fucking work when you need it?

He has to get the fuck out of here before anyone sees him. It’s bad enough that Stevie knows he was here. He'll tell Finns, for sure, which means Daniel better start thinking of a good enough excuse. But Fernando absolutely cannot see him. He can’t know that -

“Daniel?”

Too late.

The Dane closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath and turns around while still calculating how awful it would be to just make a run for the stairs.

“Fernando,” he says, trying to remain calm and composed. He even manages to smile; nervously, yes, but still. “Hi.”

“Uhm… Hey,” the Spaniard says, closing the door and stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to smile or to frown, so instead stops midway between both. “What are you doing here?”

“Just… dropped by to say hi to Stevie and Xabi.”

Fernando nods, awkwardly. “Oh."

What Daniel really wants to do is tell him that he’s in a hurry and needs to go, but the elevator is still not there and anyway… Now that the damage is done, it’s best that he doesn’t act like a complete dick; he's already acted like a dick, being caught trying to escape and everything. Last thing he needs is Fernando being suspicious and deciding to ask any undesirable questions to Stevie or Xabi.

Stevie. Just the thought of what he might do if he finds out about this makes Daniel's throat clench. He's not going to settle with just telling Steve. Oh no. He'll want to draw _blood_. Stevie is one vengeful weird best friend. Do anything even remotely harmful to Steve and it's the same as stabbing his husband. Maybe worse.

“You?” he asks.

“I work with Xabi.”

Well, fuck. Isn’t that just brilliant? One billion gay men in Liverpool and he had to go and cheat on his boyfriend with one who works with one of his closest friends. That’s impressive even for him. Although Xabi is probably not as bad as Stevie. _Probably_.

“That’s… great,” he says, not exactly doing a good job at keeping his disappointment to himself.

“What a coincidence, huh?”

“Yeah…” 

They fall into an awkward silence that Daniel feels is entirely his fault. He’s embarrassed and absolutely terrified by Fernando’s presence and he’s making it weird for the other man as well. But the other man's got nothing to do with this. Well, not consciously anyway. It’s not Fernando’s fault he’s an ass, or that he's cheated on his boyfriend, that they turn out to have acquaintances in common after all. He doesn't even know there's a boyfriend. But Dan can’t help it. At any minute now Steve could walk out or Stevie could come back and find them there and… And he doesn’t even know what they’d think, probably nothing, since they’re just talking, and there’s nothing wrong with talking. But. 

The mere act of looking at Fernando feels like enough betrayal to him. In his head, he's cheating on Steve all over again. It’s written all over their faces that they slept together. Worse: it’s blatantly obvious that they want to do it again.

“Look,” Fernando says, after a while. “You’re not… You’re not leaving because of me, are you? ‘Cause I got the feeling that you ran away when you saw me.” He pauses. “Did you?”

This is the moment Dan’s supposed to say ‘Yes, I don’t want to see you again’ or ‘Look, I have a boyfriend, what happened was a mistake’, or whatever. Anything to end this once and for all. It won't fix anything, but it will be at least half-decent of him to be honest for a change.

 _But…_ Goddamn _buts_ always ruining everything.

Fernando looks so expectant, so uncertain… Daniel exhales heavily, giving in rather easily. It’s something that keeps on happening whenever Fernando’s involved. The guy’s been effectively in his life for less than 24 full hours and yet it feels like they’ve been in a reckless affair for years. Daniel’s never felt like this before, not even with Steve. 

He should be ending things with Fernando, but he doesn’t want to. Not really.

“Of course not,” is what he ends up saying. “I didn’t notice you inside. I’m just really in a hurry. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.”

“Oh. Ok.” Fernando nods again. “Because I was waiting for you to call. I mean, you said you would. But you didn’t. So I thought maybe you had changed your mind and now you were avoiding me.”

“No. I just… I didn’t finish the painting yet.”

Fernando smiles nervously. “Is that painting even real or are you just saying that to ditch me? ‘Cause I think I can handle.”

“Yeah, it is…” _Unfortunately very real_ , he thinks. “I’ve been working day and night, but I’m not done yet.”

“Ok…” The Spaniard bites on his lower lip. “I just… I had a really good time with you.”

Dan feels his heart swelling up like it’s about to explode in his chest. “Me too,” he admits, and this is probably the only thing in this entire conversation that is true.

“Well, it was good to see you, Daniel,” Fernando says. “I hope this hasn’t been the last I hear from you.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and approaches Fernando to give him a hand shake that somehow turns into a hug and ends with a kiss on his cheek. The Dane quickly steps back, because he knows if he stays there for one more second he’s going to kiss Fernando and then, well, Jesus… God knows what he’ll be doing next. Dan wants to punch his own face, or thump his head against the wall right now. 

“I’m just gonna take the stairs,” he announces, leaving Fernando behind, not even waiting for a goodbye or anything, taking three steps at a time to get out of there as fast as possible. If there was any way his situation could get messier than it already was, it just did. Now he’s not lying just to Steve anymore, he’s also lying to Fernando. 

The worst of all, though, is that he's got a terrible feeling that he's lying to himself when he says he won't ever seek Fernando again.


	7. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's another update! :) Please, be kind about the mistakes. This story hasn't been beta'ed! Feedack is always very much appreciated and it makes my heart warm! <3
> 
> The first time I published this story I had two chapters dedicated to backstory. It was about how Finns and Daniel first got together. I'm wondering whether I should re-upload these chapters as well. Would you like to read a bit of backstory? Let me know your thoughts!

How could he decide everything so swiftly when he had hesitated and denied his feelings for an entire week? All it took for his purpose to come crashing down like a sand castle in a storm was a completely accidental meeting with Fernando. The minute he laid eyes on that Spaniard again, Daniel knew there would be no resisting it anymore. He is just that weak.

It took him less than 24 hours after seeing Fernando to send his apparently very firm resolve to never speak to him again flying out the window and call the guy. He invited Fernando over to his studio to check out the painting - except it wasn't just one painting now, there were several. And they were all him. 

At first, Daniel wasn’t sure what exactly he intended to do about it. He didn’t really have a plan, only an excuse. He was hoping he could muster the courage to tell Fernando the whole story and lay out all the cards on the table. He was hoping that Fernando would see the paintings and feel flattered (which was a real point of concern here), and he was hoping that they could have an honest conversation during coffee or something afterwards.

He hoped some magic answer to his problems would fall from the sky and direct him towards the best possible outcome for this mess. He hoped Fernando would be understanding. He also hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt anyone in the end, although that is definitely something hard to envision. Someone will be on the losing end here, this much is obvious, but whether it will be Fernando or Steve or himself, it remains to be seen.

And then he figured that that is all probably too much to hope for in one single afternoon.

Predictably, nothing happens as he expects, except for the part where Fernando shows up at the exact time they agree over the phone. Daniel skips lunch to skim over his own paintings and hide some of the ones he doesn’t think are good enough. He feels a lot like a girl picking her best underwear for a date. It's actually a very accurate metaphor, as showing his work to someone is the most invasive sort of undressing he can imagine. He’s not shy about getting physically naked in front of people, but this other type of bareness is raw and frightening. It’s like taking down the skin and the flesh and the bones and leaving his soul completely out in the open to be read and judged by other people as they please.

Daniel's trying to look his best for Fernando, to impress him. The fact he is the first casual fuck Dan’s ever invited over to his studio is saying a lot, much more than Daniel can even understand, but mostly it’s a demonstration of how not at all casual this thing they’re doing is, and that makes him terrified to the bones.

It's not just about showing things to the guy and sending him off on his way whatever the outcome - Daniel wants his approval. He was nervous the first time Steve saw his stuff, dead nervous. But he was never seeking for acceptance from Steve; he didn’t even expect him to understand what it was all about. But Fernando is in all of those paintings, he’s the inspiration behind every single stroke marking the canvases, and if he doesn’t like it, then what is the point of it?

There's a lot of talking and a lot of explaining and a lot of pointing things out to Fernando in order to avoid him misjudging things. He's very quiet throughout the whole thing, which makes Daniel increasingly anxious, on the edge of panic. Fernando looks concentrated and eager and so, so serious. 

“You hate everything, don’t you?” he asks after a while, impatient at the lack of response. Fernando just looks at him and blinks.

“What makes you think I hate it?”

“You’re not saying anything.”

“That’s because I’m listening.”

“But you look serious!”

“What should I look like?”

“I don’t know. But you look like you hate everything.”

Fernando finally lets out a smile and shakes his head. “How can I possibly hate it, Daniel? I like to listen to you explaining it to me, and I want to know exactly what you were thinking when you did all this. I’m serious because I honestly don’t know what I’ve done to cause this. It’s too much for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this is the most beautiful set of paintings I have ever seen and I have no idea where I’m supposed to see myself here, because… Honestly, I’m not that good.” Fernando stretches one hand out to outline a stroke of red on a canvas with the tip of his finger, just hovering over the ink without actually touching it. “Look at this… It’s so perfect, so precise… I love everything about it and I don’t even know why. I just want to stare at it forever.” He pauses. “I don’t think I have enough words to tell you what I really feel about it. That's why I’m quiet. I’m humbled, because… Are you really sure it was me you were thinking about?” 

Daniel's invaded by such an enormous tide of relief that, almost by instinct, his body darts forward and his arms wrap themselves around Fernando, pulling him into a kiss. It's hungry and desperate and full of gratitude. By the time he realizes what he's doing, they're completely drawn into the moment, and there is no stopping it anymore. That's when it becomes clear that the whole 'talk over a coffee afterwards' is not going to happen.

Daniel breathes hard through his nose as he licks into Fernando’s mouth, savoring the taste of him, something he has memorized by now. It was just a week, but it felt like so much more. He missed Fernando as though he'd lost a limb, like he wasn't complete without him, like he could still feel the emptiness left by his absence. The realization that all that turmoil and melancholy that dominated his days and night was just that, terribly needing someone he shouldn't, is both awful and overwhelming at the same time. His head has no idea how to react, what to do, whether to run away in terror or laugh manically in delight; his body, however, knows exactly what to do.

Dan lets his hand run through the other man’s fine, blond hair, scraping his nails gently across his scalp, and feels his body shuddering at the abbreviated noise Fernando produces, immediately swallowed by his mouth as he refuses to break away the kiss. He feels Fernando’s hands clench on his waist, dipping lower to his hips and then sliding to cup his ass and pull him in.

Soon enough he has Fernando pinned against the wall as he ravages his mouth, chests pressed together as he senses the answering press of the Spaniard’s erection against his. Daniel pushes away only enough to get the other man out of his jacket and t-shirt, sliding his palms down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen until he's groping Fernando's crotch. The Spaniard groans loudly, burying his face in Daniel’s neck and attacking the skin there with the same intensity of their kiss.

“I love…” Daniel says, breathing hard, “I love your mouth.” He starts to undo Fernando’s jeans, zipping it open to stuff his hand inside and wrap his fingers around his cock. Fernando answers with a completely incoherent sound. “I love your mouth so much,” he continues as he pulls the Spaniard’s head back up to bite on his lower lip, already red and swollen. “It’s such a beautiful, beautiful mouth…” Nip, suck… “It’s a mouth to be worshipped.”

“Don’t you mean to… ahn… worship with?”

Daniel laughs into a kiss, “That too.”

Fernando then places both his hands on the Dane’s chest and pushes him lightly away, moaning as Daniel’s hand lets go of his erection. “I’d like to reward you for the paintings,” he starts, toeing off his sneakers and then proceeding to take off Daniel’s shirt. “I want to show you just how much I appreciate it. All of it.” Undoing Dan’s jeans, he pulls it down along with the underwear, leaving him completely naked. On his way back up, Fernando leaves a trail of little wet kisses up his thighs, then his hipbone and his torso, finishing with one on his mouth. “Is there a bed in here we can use?”

Daniel chuckles. “There’s a mattress.”

“Good enough.”

Daniel leads the way to the tiny room where he keeps his mattress and Fernando immediately shoves him down against it. Dan obliges, staring with wide, fiery eyes as Fernando settles himself on top of him, between his legs. The Spaniard starts stroking him and Dan shifts a little, adjusting his body into the touch, his muscles melting under Fernando’s ministrations. The Spaniard twists his hand over him and Daniel jerks his hips up. “Fuck,” he groans, loudly. “You know what you’re doing…”

Fernando smirks as a flicker of lust sweeps through him. “Yeah,” he says, lowering his body down just enough to rub his own dick against Dan’s thigh. “And you feel too tense.”

“I had a very… uh…” he bites his lip. “Very exhausting week.”

“Oh, poor thing…” the Spaniard says in a mock-pitiful tone, kissing him again. “I’m gonna make it better for you.”

Daniel winces, desperate for contact when Fernando lets go of his cock, his hands sliding down Dan’s legs as he urges them apart. Daniel lifts his neck to look down as Fernando leans forward and breathes on his shaft. He tries to arch up his back, to jerk his hips up again, but Fernando’s firm hands are still keeping him down.

“For fuck’s sake…” he mutters under his breath, and nearly yelps as the Spaniard finally swallows him. He isn’t teasing anymore; this is pure unwavering desire and Daniel feels he can come just from watching the other man like this. Fernando’s cheeks turn red from the exercise, his face already glistening with sweat. If he had a brush in his hands right now, Daniel could paint the masterpiece of his career, he thinks. His own fucking Mona Lisa.

He breathes out Fernando’s name and shudders as the other man smiles at him, pressing his tongue against the slit of his cock and spreading the moisture there over the head. “Fucking bastard,” he says. “Don’t stop now.”

Fernando chuckles, moving up again and taking his mouth into a deep, languid kiss, letting Daniel taste himself. He protests into the lip lock, pulling Fernando down against him to rub their bodies together, his length sliding along Fernando’s as he feels the other man’s heat against his skin, making Fernando groan loudly. It's like fucking music to his ears.

Fernando pulls back, moving to nuzzle his neck, his fingers working their way down his chest again and touching everything but his length. He starts kissing him, and then down, slow and thorough, tracing his tattoos with his tongue, memorizing them, learning every contour and muscle and imperfection on Dan’s body - worshiping him with his mouth. 

Daniel feels as though he is drowning in warmth and sensation, his focus wavering a little.

“You’re beautiful,” Fernando finally says, his eyes wide as he looks down at him. “What do you want me to do?”

Dan’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “You,” he says, simply. “I just want you.”

“Well, then. I’m all yours.”

Daniel’s heart nearly bursts out of his chest at that moment, taken with so much joy that it doesn't fit inside of him anymore. If he dies right here, it would be completely at peace, with no regrets whatsoever.

Suddenly, Fernando stands up and steps away, taking off the rest of his clothes and padding out of the room, gorgeously naked. He comes back a few seconds later, showing a sachet of lube in one hand and a condom on the other. He smirks. “Figured we might be needing these, so I came prepared.”

Daniel laughs, pulling Fernando down to pluck a kiss from his lips. While Daniel rolls on the condom, Fernando prepares himself, making a show of pushing two slicked fingers up his hole, looking down at Daniel while he breathes hard and moans. The Dane has to quit all contact with his own cock as to not come at the mere sight of Fernando opening himself up and pushing back against his own hand like that.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he hisses, grabbing the Spaniard by his thighs and pulling him down to sit on his own legs. “I need you right now, for God’s sake,” he says, with a good measure of exasperation.

Fernando smirks again, but stops teasing. He lifts his body up and guides Dan inside of him, pushing down. Daniel pants as he feels the other man’s ass open around his head, resisting at first, and then pulling him in with irresistible pressure and heat as Fernando goes all the way down, arching his back and murmuring something unintelligible, probably in Spanish.

“God… Fuck…” Dan pants, grabbing a hold of the other man’s hips and thrusting up against him. They stay like this for a moment, painfully not moving, while Fernando gasps for air.

As Fernando clenches around him and starts moving, picking a gradually faster pace to ride him, Daniel figures he won't be lasting too long. He wraps a hand around the other man’s cock, stroking him while he presses himself faster and furiously against Dan’s crotch, pleasure urging him forward. Every time he hits Fernando’s prostate, the other man grunts loud, rolling his hips a little, before continuing to move again.

For a moment there, Daniel feels he's being shattered to pieces and there is absolutely nothing else in the world but Fernando and the warmth of his body. 

He comes long and hard, his toes curling and his nails digging into the skin of the Spaniard’s legs while he continues to mount him. Fernando starts stoking himself in the same pace as he rides Dan’s cock, thrusting forward into his hand until he, too, reaches his orgasm. His body seems to dematerialize as he collapses forward, completely exhausted, breathing heavily on Dan’s neck, mouthing mindlessly against his flesh.

Daniel wraps his arms protectively around the man on top of him and closes his eyes. They stay like that for a while, waiting for their hearts to stop beating so fast and their breaths to even out. The Spaniard eventually rolls off of him to lie on his side, one leg thrown over Dan’s. He pulls Fernando’s face closer to kiss him again, wet and needy. 

When he pulls away, Fernando is smiling. “This keeps getting better,” he says.

“Yeah,” Daniel replies, pressing his lips against Fernando’s forehead.

They lie together until Fernando eventually dozes off, and that's when Dan finally disentangles himself from his lover’s arms to find a towel and clean up the mess a little. He sneaks out of the room to wash his face and hands and stops in front of one of the paintings before going back.

That's the moment when it finally hits him. He is, officially, having an affair. It can hardly be classified as ‘accidental’ or ‘casual’ anymore. Fernando is at his studio, lying on his mattress, sleeping off exhaustion after a thorough fuck. Daniel knows this for a while, but there is no lying to himself and pretending he doesn’t know what he’s getting into anymore. Fernando is no one-night stand.

And now he has no fucking idea what to make of that.

“Are you all right?” Fernando asks, laying a hand between his shoulders and smoothing it down to the small of his back. “You look tense,” he adds, placing a chaste kiss on Daniel’s neck.

The Dane closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch. “Not tense,” he answers. “Just thoughtful.”

“What are you thinking about?”

He turns a little to look at Fernando. “Everything.”

“It’s a lot to think about.”

“Probably.” He takes Fernando by his arms and pulls him into a kiss, just a pressing of lips, really, something that would be almost chaste were they not completely naked. “What have you done to me, Fernando Torres?” he asks, and something inside of him squirms away at the question. 

Fernando grins, brushing Dan’s cheek with his thumb. “Only the same you’ve done to me, I hope.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that - doesn’t think he can say what he really wants to and doesn’t think anything else will suffice, so, instead, he kisses him softly again, and tries to brush away all the anxieties and fears. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I’m fucking starving.”

Dan chuckles. “We can go out to grab a bite somewhere.” Fernando makes a face. “Or we can order something and eat here.” Then he smiles.

“Much better.”

“Is this all laziness?”

“Not really. I’m just thinking about how much more work we’re going to have if we get cleaned up to go out just to get back here and dirty ourselves up all over again.”

Daniel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Already thinking of round two, are you?”

Fernando shrugs. “I haven’t got anything better to do. Have you?”

Daniel stops for a second. “No,” he finally answers. “I haven’t. Let me go get my mobile for some take-away numbers. There are clean towels in the bathroom, if you want to wash up a little or something.”

“Great,” Fernando says, kissing Daniel quickly before disappearing into his bathroom.

Dan can’t really remember when was the last time he felt this happy. But why does it feel like there’s a fucking fist clenched around his heart then? Why does he want to go back to bed and cry like a fucking baby?

This isn’t happiness… This is torture.

 

x-x-x

 

Xabi sips from his tea, looking suspiciously at Fernando from behind the hem of his cup. “You look chirpy,” he comments as the other man mixes the sugar in his coffee with a goofy grin on his lips. Xabi can almost hear the song Fernando’s humming in his head.

“I am indeed,” he confirms. _Thanks for noticing_ , he doesn't have to say.

“Let me guess…” Xabi licks his lips and puts down his mug. “That guy you were telling me about.”

Fernando’s smile becomes so impossibly huge Xabi thinks he can count all the teeth in his mouth. “That’s great, darling,” he says, honestly touched by how happy Fernando looks. It’s impossible not to sympathize. It reminds him of himself and Steven back in their day. Xabi walked around smiling at everything and everyone for days when the two of them finally decided to start seeing each other, in spite of the Finns situation. “So, did he call you or did you call him after all?”

“He called me! I didn’t even have to think about it for much longer. He called me yesterday morning inviting me over to his studio in the afternoon and I had the most amazing day of my life in as long as I can remember!” Fernando shakes his head, sipping from his coffee. “He’s incredible. I can’t really believe how lucky I was to meet him that night.”

Xabi’s heartfelt smile does not waver, but he can’t help but frown a little. “Studio?”

“Oh, yeah!” Fernando slaps his own forehead. “I totally forgot to tell you! I was going to, but then I got distracted with Sergio and I didn’t have time to call you the next day. He was at your party! I had a chat with him there, but he was in a hurry and it only lasted a minute. Can’t believe I forgot to mention it to you.”

Xabi's smile drops completely. He feels his heart getting tight in his chest. Some guy with a studio that was at his party. It could be anyone, really. There were dozens of guys there that fit the description. But his instinct is telling him he knows exactly who is the one in question… Only it’s too much of a bad coincidence. He’s taken over by a sense of urgency all of a sudden, wanting nothing more than to be wrong.

“What kind of studio does he own?”

“He’s a painter. He’s been painting me, actually. Well, not _me_ , me. But he said I was the inspiration for his last few works.” Fernando chuckles. “Sounds ridiculous, right? But his work is really amazing. You probably know it, though.”

Oh, fuck… “His name wouldn’t be Daniel Agger by any chance, would it?” he asks, already wincing inwardly in advance.

“Yes! That’s him!” 

Xabi feels his heart dropping to lie somewhere around his shoes. The tea he just drank climbs back up to the back of his throat as his stomach churns away manically. _Fuck… Fuck, fuck, fuck…_

“Are you ok, Xabi?” Fernando asks, concerned. “You look pale.”

“It’s the tea; I think…” he pushes the cup away. “I think it didn’t go down too well.”

“Do you want me to call someone? I could get the manager -”

“No, that’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with the tea, it’s… Me. I’m not feeling very well.”

“Oh,” Fernando says, and sits a little stiff in his place.

He opens his mouth to tell Fernando that his ‘lucky find’ is not such a blessing as he seems to think, but snaps it back shut again. The boy looks so happy, so genuinely excited that the thought of wiping that sparkle off of his eyes makes Xabi feel like a monster.

Xabi knew Finns and Daniel were in the middle of a crisis. It’s true that they had been doing fairly well for a while, but it’s not totally unexpected. Definitely nothing new. They’re always in a crisis, one way or another. Xabi is also very much aware of Dan’s infidelities. But this thing with Fernando… It’s different. They’ve been seeing each other, Fernando seems very confident that they’re in the early stages of a relationship here - he spoke about fucking _connection_ , for God’s sake! Dan’s cheating style is well advertised and if there is one thing he never does with any of his pick-ups is _connect_.

This is wrong. So, so freaking wrong. Didn't Stevie tell him about Finns getting kicked out of the studio just the other day? How the hell does he forbid his boyfriend from going to his workplace but welcomes a stranger there? Except... Jesus Christ. Maybe Fernando was there with him at the time. Maybe he was working on naked portraits of Fernando and that's why he didn't want Finns to see anything.

 _Oh, God_...

What is a person supposed to do in a situation like this? He doesn’t want to be the bearer of the terrible news to Fernando, and he also doesn’t want to break it to Finns. If he tells Stevie, he’s gonna go up the walls and, knowing his husband and his obsession with his best friend’s well-being, he’ll never welcome Fernando back into their home again.

_Oh God oh God oh God..._

“How long did you say you’ve been going out with Daniel again?”

Fernando blinks slowly. “Uhm… A little over a week, I guess.”

“And are you going to see him again?”

“Sure. I think we’re going out tomorrow night.”

 _Oh, fucking God…_ “Right.”

“Why?”

“Nothing, just… Curious.”

Fernando is quiet for a moment. “How do you know Daniel?”

Xabi swallows down hard around the lump in his throat. _He’s dating Finns_ , he wants to say. _For four fucking years! He was Finns’ date to my wedding, for God’s sake! Stop fucking him!_ Instead, what he says is, “He’s a… friend of a… very good friend.”

It’s inevitable that he’d end up being the person to find out about this first. What the fuck is Daniel thinking, going out with a guy who works for him? Does he honestly think he can get away with it?

The bottom-line question here is: what does he do with this information? He can tell Finns and let him deal with his man whichever way he prefers. Or he can tell Stevie and let him kick Daniel’s ass, like he always wanted to. Either way, Fernando ends up getting hurt. And so does Finns. Which means Stevie gets hurt and he gets hurt and this is such a fucking mess…

“You don’t look so excited, Xabi,” Fernando says. 

“Oh, it’s nothing, it’s just… I never thought… I mean, you and Daniel, it’s… It’s really unthinkable.”

“I do think we’re very different, yeah. But we also have things in common, I guess. When we’re together, it’s like we’ve known each other for years. It’s such a weird thing.”

He’s getting nauseated now. “Imagine that…”

“I look stupid don’t I? You think I’m pathetic like a high school girl.” The boy shakes his head slowly. “I hate myself for that. I keep smiling all the time and I don’t even notice, it’s like I’m a maniac or something. I’ve never felt like this before. I mean, I literally just met him. I’m ridiculous.”

Xabi covers one of Fernando’s hands with his own, giving it a little squeeze. “No, honey,” he says, with a little sad smile. “You’re not ridiculous. You’re in love.”

x-x-x

“Coke and pig fat for you,” Martin announces, returning to their table with a tray. He puts Dan’s lunch in front of him and walks around to sit on the chair across from the Dane. “Ice tea and salad for moi.”

“Are you on a diet again?”

“I’m always on a diet, darling. How do you think I keep this level of hotness going on?”

Daniel cocks him eyebrow. “Aren’t you the one who says you were just born with the right genes or some shit?”

“Yes, that means I have an advantage. My amazing cheekbones, for instance. But I’m still only human, even though I doubt that sometimes myself.” Dan chuckles, taking a bite from his sandwich. “So, news!” Martin announces, cheerfully. “I finally figured out who’s next on my to-do list.”

“You still have a to-do list? I thought you’d already made your way through the entire northwest England.”

Skrtel glares frostily at him. Martin can be really intimidating when he eyes you like that. But as soon as he starts talking, the fear-factor is all gone. Daniel’s never met anyone with the same talent for speaking so much crap in such a short span like Martin. “You’re funny, Daniel.”

“Do you even realize how weird you are?”

“I’m not weird, honey, I’m disciplined.”

“I doubt you were like that in school.”

“How do you think I made my way through the entire football _and_ hockey squads without ever repeating a single fuck, huh?” Martin gives him a look that says ‘See how bright I am?’, to which Daniel responds with one that says ‘You just proved my point, idiot'.

“You know, I used to think I was a whore when I was in high school. Meeting you shines a new light over everything I thought about my adolescence.”

Martin gives him an eye-roll and fakes a yawn. “Who caaaaares, Daniel? I’ll save you some time on my divan for you to babble about your life.” He snaps his fingers in the air in a quick succession. “Don’t change the subject now, please. I was talking about me.”

The Dane just shakes his head. Martin is the guy you either love or hate. There’s no in-between with him. Sometimes you hate him even when you love him. “Who’s the victim?”

“Sergio.”

He frowns. “Ramos? The DJ?”

“Yup.”

“You haven’t done the resident DJ of your second home, who happens to be as much of a whore as you are?”

“I know, right?! It’s shocking! He’s so obvious! I was embarrassed when I realized that. Need to fix it ASAP.”

"I think Nick has hooked up with him a few times."

"Oh, thank you. I feel a lot worse now knowing that even Nicklas has done him before I have."

“Do you even know if he’s interested?”

“Ha-ha,” Martin says, humorlessly. “Was that another one of your jokes? ‘Cause it wasn’t funny at all, you should spend some time working on your sense of humor.”

“You know, in the normal world, we, humans, do worry about whether the people we want to bed are interested or not. We don’t just rape the guys.”

“I have an impressively clean record, Daniel, if you must know. I never had to put anything in anybody’s drinks to get them in bed, thank you very much. What I mean is, I’m fabulous. Everyone’s interested in me, obviously.”

Daniel laughs.

“Is that a smile I see on Daniel ‘Le Sulk’ Agger’s face?” Martin asks with a lopsided grin. “Oh my God, that’s a first in months! Call the paparazzi! Let’s have some fucking champagne! You’re in a good mood! Is baby Jesus back on earth or something?”

“Shut up, Martin.”

“I should’ve noticed you were being adoringly offensive rather than passive-aggressive. I’m so happy for you, honey!”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m really not.” Martin takes a gulp from his ice tea and then makes a sound, remembering something. “By the way! I never asked you! How was it with your bitch?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “Martin, how many times am I gonna have to tell you to stop calling Steve a bitch?”

“Not that boring bitch. The other bitch!”

“What other bitch?”

“Jesus, Daniel. The bitch at Mercy, of course! You two were getting pretty intense when I stopped looking.” He smirks. “I meant to stick around and keep an eye on the action to see how things would go, but you know me, I get easily distracted by half-naked men.” He shrugs. “You did fuck him, right?”

Daniel considers how much of the truth he should tell Martin. He’s a complete lunatic, but he’s not stupid. If Daniel lies about everything, he’ll just know he’s withholding information and he won’t let go until he gets to the core of it - and then he'll want to know _why_ Daniel wasn't telling him the whole story to begin with. But if he ever finds out that he’s been seeing Fernando regularly… Jesus, Dan might as well just shoot himself in the head right now rather than wait until Martin drives him over the edge by peer pressure. Not to mention he’ll advertise it to the whole fucking world - starting with a billboard right in front of his and Steve’s bedroom window.

“Kind of,” he says, looking away, trying to seem as uninterested in Fernando as he possibly can.

“What is kind of?”

Dan sighs. “I fucked him.”

“Good for you, Dagger!” Martin claps his hands enthusiastically. “And…?”

“And what?”

“What is the problem with you today? Have you been smoking Nicklas’ shitty stuff again? Wake the fuck up!” Martin snaps his fingers in front of Dan’s eyes until he pushes his friend’s arm away. “How was the sex, for crying out loud?”

“It was all right.”

“All right? That’s it?” 

“Meh.” He shrugs, trying to keep his mask on even as the memories of the afternoon he spent with Fernando start to rush back. Daniel shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat and makes an effort to focus on Martin rather than on the Spaniard riding him or shivering and moaning in his arms as he came in his mouth. Dan can almost taste him. “It was all right. Good, I guess. But nothing extraordinary.”

“Really?” Martin’s expression twists into a grimace. “With that ass?”

Dan arches an eyebrow at him. “How do you even remember what his ass was like?”

“I have photographic memory for asses. A good ass never escapes me. His ass was delicious. I would definitely do him if you hadn’t gone for it.” Daniel threatens to glower, already getting all possessive about Fernando (seriously, what is happening to him?), but smothers it down and looks away instead. “Damn. I really thought blondie was gonna be the one.”

Daniel thinks it’s really touching how earnestly disappointed his friend looks. You’d think they were talking about more than just a guy he fucked up against a dirty bathroom stall - as far as Martin knows, anyway.

“The one what?”

“The one to make you realize your place is not with the good wife, of course.”

He feels a bit of a guilty sting somewhere, but remains impassive. “How is a Mercy bathroom quickie going to make me realize I shouldn’t be with the man I’ve been with for four years?” 

And that happens to be _The Question_ , doesn’t it? It’s exactly what that quickie did, it turned his head around in a way that nothing had never done before, not even Steve, and Steve was pretty mind-blowing, definitely life-changing. He fucked a guy once and it somehow turned his life upside down. He’s pretty sure he still loves Steve, the idea of losing him makes his stomach tie up in knots, it’s terrifying. But then how is it possible for him to love someone as much as he loves Steve and still be completely awe-struck by someone else? It doesn’t make any sense. 

Being able to ask these questions to Martin without letting him know how much of it he actually means is not such a bad thing after all, although Dan reckons he’d still rather avoid the subject altogether. Martin can smell a good shag miles away.

“A good quickie can. A good quickie can make you rethink your entire life, honey.” Daniel never thought he’d ever agree with Martin’s bathroom philosophies, but it turns out he might not be as crazy as they all think. There’s some reason in that bald head of his. “If a bitch can impress you with a bathroom quickie, then it’s definitely worth keeping him around.”

Daniel shakes his head at his friend. Half the time he thinks Martin should be locked up in a madhouse, the other half he thinks he should have a TV show. Dr. Phil or fucking Oprah should sit down to have a chat with Martin one of these days. “Have you ever considered writing a book?”

Martin smiles self-consciously. “Daniel, baby… What do you think I am? Of course I have. I even have a title.”

Dan frowns. “I want to know but I’m afraid to ask.”

The Slovakian clears his throat and puts his palms out together in the air, slowing pulling them apart as he enunciates the title. “Skrtel: My life as a Queen.” Daniel snorts into his coke and nearly falls from his chair laughing. “You can laugh now. In a few years’ time you’ll be giving me a call to get signed copies to all your friends and tickets to the movie premiere. Just you wait for me to retire. Then I’ll begin to work on it.”

“Retire from what?! You don’t do anything.”

“From fabulous, of course.”

“That’s not a real job, Martin.”

“It’s my 24/7 occupation. I don’t have time for anything else. I know I’m always going to be fabulous either way, ‘cause that’s genetic, nothing I can do about it, but I mean… It does get a little creepy to hang out around bars and clubs hitting on younger men once you get to a certain age. It’s a little freaky, can’t see myself doing it. That’s when I won’t need to keep all my tricks about fabulousness to myself, so I’ll write a book and guide all the poor lost souls of this world for generations to come.”

The best - or the worst, depends on the point of view - part of this is that he talks like he actually believes he’ll be bringing a gift to human kind. Martin is that delusional. His head must be a really incredible place to inhabit. “You really do believe you’d get a Nobel Prize for writing a book on how to get laid three times a night, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you? I think that would make the world a much better place. Well fucked people means happy people, which means no more wars, no more crankiness, no more NHS lines, no more stupid governments stealing money from the working class. These fuckers are all going to be happy all the time or simply too busy getting a good fuck to even think about evil-doing.”

Daniel has to laugh. Martin’s got a point, he’ll give him that - even if it got lost pretty soon on his explanation. “You shouldn’t wait until you’re 60 before you start working on this.”

Martin snorts derisively. “Who said sixty?! I won’t live ‘till I’m sixty, that is practically being a mummy. I’ll start writing when I’m 32.”

“Thirty two?! You think 32 is old?!”

“Hell, yeah. It’s gross.”

“Steve is 35 and there’s absolutely nothing gross about him.”

Martin winces in disgust, making a grimace. “I don’t even like to imagine his wrinkled cock flapping about like a piece of rubber. Gives me goosebumps. Ugh!”

“What?! Martin! He’s fucking 35, not 100! His cock is fine! It’s a beautiful cock.”

The Slovakian lets out a short, ironic laugh. “If you say so…” he says in a sing-song voice.

“You’re fucking mental.”

“Look, I’m just saying I’d never do Steve. He’s ancient according to my chronology. That’s all. I respect it that some people happen to have a fashion for old dudes. It’s like people with a fetish for suits. Or people who like Bjork. Is it weird? Sure. But what are you gonna do? This is a free country.”

“Oh, quit the shit, Martin. You only say that ‘cause you’re jealous of Steve. You’d totally do him.”

“I would not, Daniel. Not in a million years. Steve is the acme of everything that is wrong with this world. I even bet he’s been to a few Bjork concerts.”

“He hasn’t. And he’s hot. That’s all that matters to you.”

“Daniel, if hearing me say that I’d fuck your boyfriend will put your spirit at ease and make you happy, then I will say it because I love you. But I should tell you, I wouldn’t be meaning a word of it.”

“Shut up, Martin.”

That’s how most conversations with Martin end. In the beginning, they usually ended with Daniel shutting him up with a kiss or by busing the other man’s mouth with some other part of his anatomy. But since Steve, he has to settle for a simple request, which unfortunately doesn’t really work as well as the other options. 

“I’m still disappointed, though,” Martin continues after appreciating only five seconds of silence. Daniel rolls his eyes and takes a large gulp from his coke. “I had a lot of faith in blondie.”

Dan shrugs nonchalantly. “You can’t put faith in someone you’ve looked at for five seconds in a crowded night club. Take that as a lesson.”

“You did that with your beloved Steve.”

“No, I didn’t. I went home with him. I had a proper fuck, spent a proper night together, at his very proper home. It’s totally different.” He's questioning himself even as he says it.

Martin shakes his head decisively. “I have a good eye, Dagger. Blondie wasn’t your regular Mercy bitch, which is why I thought you two would get along. You’re past the Mercy bitch phase, regardless of how hard I try to pull you back, Steve has scarred you for life. You wouldn’t be interested in someone who looks like a complete whore. You needed a man who could retain at least a little spark of dignity whilst holding your dick in his mouth. Blondie looked like he could be the guy to bring color back into your life.”

Daniel is momentarily paralyzed, staring unblinkingly at Martin. He doesn’t think anything Martin’s ever said in his life has made as much sense as this. It’s scary to think Martin could be right about Fernando after only seeing him for five seconds. If he’s right about that, then what else? What if he’s right about Steve? What if Steve was never meant for him after all?

Daniel does not want to live in a world where Martin is right about anything. Not even Bjork, and he fucking hates Bjork.

“Oh, well,” Martin continues after a moment of thought, pulling Dan out of his daze. “If even Einstein couldn’t get the evolution theory right, then I guess it’s fair that I get one tiny thing wrong once.”

“It wasn’t Einstein who made the evolution theory, you dumb fuck.”

“Dagger. Stick to the point, please,” he gives him a cold glare. “I won’t fail next time.”

“There will be no next time.”

“But I was so close!”

“You were not close, stop saying that! I’m not leaving Steve for Fernando, or for anyone else! Drop that shit!” The minute he closes his mouth he realizes he spoke a little bit too much. A mischievous eyebrow arches beautifully on Martin’s face.

“Fernando?” he says, savoring every syllable as he pronounces the name. “Why didn’t I know that we had a sexy name?”

“Because it’s not important. I didn’t even know I still remembered that. It just came out.”

“Really… So you didn’t like the fuck, but you still kept his name. Interesting…” Martin’s radar is beeping, Dan can tell. He’s not at all convinced.

“Look, just stop, ok? I love Steve, get the fuck over that. I shouldn’t have let you take me back to Mercy that one time, it’s definitely not happening again. You’re lucky I’m not pissed at you for making me do it.”

“Making you? Honey, I didn’t have to make anything. I just gave you a little push. You wanted him.”

“I was fucking high, Martin! A real friend would’ve pulled me out of it, not encouraged me.”

He laughs once, loud and humorless. “Baby, you are hanging out with the wrong person if you expect me to be a cock-block. I’m all for cock parties, with open cock bars where you can just go and take your pick. Free cocks for everyone!”

“Don’t you think I know that, you fucking nympho?”

“Besides, I was just as crazy as you were.”

“Not that you would’ve been any better sober.”

“Sometimes I’m worse. But hey,” he puts a conciliatory hand on top of Dan’s, giving him a little squeeze before pulling it back. “Bad sex aside, did you have fun?”

“… Yes,” the Dane mutters.

Martin gives him a big, toothy grin, genuinely happy. It almost makes Daniel feel a little better. Almost. “See?! I’m not academically clever, but I know my shit! Trust this queen here to know exactly how to put a smile on that gorgeous face of yours!”

Dan tries to stay mad at him, but can’t really do it. A smile breaks its way onto his face, and he just tsks at his friend. “You’re terrible, Martin.”

“I love you too.” He blows Daniel a kiss. “Are you sure there is not a chance you could be tempted into giving another shot? Maybe I could find your muse…”

“Martin,” he admonishes.

The other man sighs wearily. “Fine, fine… I’ll take what I can get. Now, me time! Help me figure out a plan to get Sergio.”

“I thought you were going to write a book on how to do that. Why do you need my help?”

“When I say ‘help me’, I mean I’ll tell you what I’m thinking and you’re just going to nod and agree.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“So. Sergio. _Serrrrgio. Sergiiio_.” He tries the name, using different intonations. “Don’t you just love the way it sounds? I can hear myself screaming his name in my head, and it sounds absolutely _sextastic_. It scratches on the back of my throat.”

“Sure,” Dan nods, as requested. Let Martin have his “me” time so they won’t have to discuss Fernando, or Steve, or anything of that sort again.

“Yeah… But I want to have some other Spanish thing scratching my throat. So! Here’s what I’m gonna do…”


	8. Voyeur of utter destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is much appreciated. :) I really look forward to knowing your thoughts. Please, don't hesitate!

The first thing Stevie thinks when Finns kicks his office door opens and storms in demanding reports with a completely unnecessary urgency is that it is way too early for someone to be talking that loud. The second is that he probably has Daniel to thank for that. Nothing else causes Finns to come in to work in such foul mood.

With a deep sigh, Stevie calmly puts down his reading glasses and says, “Good morning to you too, Stephen. It’s lovely to see you.”

“Yeah. Report.” Finns snaps his fingers, stretching out an impatient hand for Stevie to hand him over the papers. Suddenly, though, he frowns and tilts his head a little to the side. “Were you wearing glasses?”

“I was indeed,” Stevie answers, opening one of his drawers in search of the documents Finns so kindly requested. 

They’ve had a very specific dynamic between the two of them since the very early stages of their relationship: they alternate moods. Whenever he wakes up with his little dark clouds hovering above his head, Finns keeps his cool and respects the bitchiness. When it’s Finns’ turn to be nasty, Stevie has a duty to remain calm and allow him to vent. Works like magic, although it can be a pain sometimes. Like when someone walks in on him wearing glasses no one was meant to know he’s wearing and he can’t snap at that because it’s his friend’s turn to be a bloody bitch. 

The things one does for love.

“Since when?”

“Two months or so.”

“How come you’ve been wearing glasses for two months and I didn’t know about it?”

“Probably because it’s kind of a secret. If you had knocked like a normal person I would’ve had time to take it off.”

“Why?”

“I’m not ready to be a person who wears glasses before the world yet, so I’m not advertising.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Stevie gives Finns a look like he's completely insane and, when his friend still doesn't realize what he means, shakes his head and starts inspecting the content of a folder. “People look at you differently when you have glasses on your face. It’s a lot of pressure. You’re supposed to be serious and behave accordingly and bosses think you’re a stupid nerd who doesn’t get laid and lives for the work, and I like people to look at me and see me for what I really am.”

“Which is…?”

“Dashy, ace, cool and very well served on the getting laid department.”

“Dear God… Have you shared this ridiculousness with Xabi?”

“Of course.”

“And he’s ok with you saying that out loud?”

“He fell in love with me _because_ of that.”

“I pity him sometimes.”

“You’ll understand what I mean when you get to the glasses stage.”

“I have very good eyes. It’s a family thing.”

Stevie snorts, closes the folder again and hands it to Finns. “Everyone gets to that stage, Finns. Don’t kid yourself.”

Finns snatches the folder away and immediately turns back to stomp his way out the exact same way he got in.

“Oh-oh-oh!” Stevie stops him, raising his arms in enquiry. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my office.”

“Like that?”

Stephen stops, thinks for a moment, and then says, "Thank you," waving the folder in the air at Stevie.

"That's it?"

"What else do you want? A foot massage?

“You barge into my office like a fucking ogre, walks in on me wearing my secret glasses - doesn’t even say good morning, mind you -”

“Good morning, Steven,” Finns says around a sigh.

“Thank you. But now the least you can do is tell me what’s up your arse today. Although I wouldn’t turn down the foot massage either.”

Finns considers him for a moment before shutting back the door and leaning against it with his arms folded. “You should ask me what’s not.”

“Oh.” Stevie’s eyebrows arch up. “Isn’t Daniel a little too young to be having performance issues already?”

Finns shrugs. “I wouldn’t know if that’s his problem, would I? I barely see him at all. All he does next to me is sleep.”

Stevie is well aware that Finns’ relationship is, once more, going through a rough patch. Overall, they have more lows than highs, but for some reason Finns is very keen on keeping it going, so Stevie decided to save his acrid, truthful comments regarding Daniel for the most dramatic moments as to not sound like a broken record, repeating the same things over and over and over to no avail whatsoever. 

Ever since the whole Mercy thing, Finns has been getting gradually bitterer by the day as his mood took on a terrible downturn. The only moment he seemed to relax a little was during Xabi’s party - until, that is, Stevie came back from the street and, ever so innocently, asked of Daniel’s whereabouts, only to find out that that crazy dickhead had been to his flat but fled without letting Finns know he was there. What kind of person does that, seriously? That kid has some loose wires in his fucking head.

“I always found it very ironic that people start acting like they have a gigantic dick stuck up their arses 24 hours a day when the real problem is that they don’t,” Stevie muses.

Finns flips him the middle finger and continues to talk. “Ever since he went back to his stupid painting we just don’t have sex anymore.”

“I thought you liked his paintings.”

“I love his paintings, but I’m stressed. I work too hard, I don’t smoke. I fucking need a good shag to loosen up a little and I haven’t got one in days. My muscles are all stiff and I feel hot all the bloody time. There is a fucking volcano ready to blow up under my skin.”

“Jesus, Finns. Nympho much, are you? Don’t remember you being like that.”

“I got used to having sex, one way or another, every single day. I don’t know how to cope with this sudden abstinence. I want to be understanding with him but I can’t keep using my bloody hands anymore.” Finns finishes his speech with a very explicit gesture and a tune of exasperation on his voice, making Stevie feel both sad for him as well as slightly uncomfortable. 

“Too much information, love.”

“Oh, and that’s all so fucking new to you, isn’t it? Bite me, Gerrard.”

Stevie is momentarily taken aback by the shift in roles here. He’s usually the mouthy one with all the cursing and the offensive, insane speeches, while Finns is, more often than not, the gentleman amongst the two of them. Next thing his friend is going to start getting aggressive, and Stevie definitely doesn’t want to be on the line of fire. Finns needs an intervention.

“Why don’t you join Xabi and me tonight?”

The Irishman stops, completely deadpanned, and blinks very slowly. “… what?”

“Not like that, you pervert! I mean why don’t you go out with us tonight?”

“I’m here telling you how I haven’t had a shag in days and you ask me to join you and your husband, what the fuck did you want me to think?”

“You usually have less impure thoughts, Finns. That’s the kind of thing _I_ would assume.” 

Finns sighs. “I’m really worse than I thought, aren’t I?”

Stevie nods. “Like you’re wearing underwear that’s three sizes too small.”

“Fuck…”

“Again: why don’t you join Xabi and I tonight, _at Mercy_ , for a night out?”

Finns purses his lips into a displeased pout. “Mercy? Really?”

“Sergio has been nagging us about showing up there and Xabi decided he wants to go tonight. And you know how he bosses me around, so I really have no choice. And you should totally come with. What better place for you to exorcize all that bottled up sexual energy you have burning up inside than there?”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on! It’ll be fun! Like in the old days!”

“Our old days there aren’t really that much fun for me, Stevie.”

The old days at Mercy that were fun for Finns were really a long time ago, before Xabi, back when the two of them had first started dating and were fresh out of university. Then Stevie met Xabi there and Mercy was never the same for Finns. Not even the moment he met Daniel was a real glorious one. Not in Stevie’s opinion, anyway.

“Just stop playing hard and quit the prick act, Finns. Say yes.”

He rolls his eyes at Stevie and shakes his head. “Fine.”

“Yes! Wear fuck-me clothes. And don’t bring Daniel.”

“Are you suggesting I pick someone up?”

“Why not?”

“Stevie,” Finns admonishes. 

“What? Like Daniel can complain.” He shrugs. “If you want to have sex and he won’t give it to you, just go out and get it.”

“If that’s the kind of crap you’re going to give me all night, then I don’t think I’m going.”

“Fine! Don’t have sex! Continue your celibacy. Whatever. But at least you can have a few drinks, dance a little, grind upon some hot guy… All very harmless,” Stevie says, with a smile.

Finns just shakes his head and pushes himself away from the door. “I’m going back to work.”

“We’ll pick you up at 10.”

“Great.”

“Wear fuck-me clothes.”

“Shut up.”

“And, Finns?”

The Irishman turns back again, grunting. “What, Steven, for the love of God?”

Stevie gives him a very pointed look. “Do not tell anyone about my glasses.”

“Such a fucking baby…”

“I mean it!”

“Yeah, whatever. Bye.”

Finns hasn’t even slammed the door shut behind him yet and Stevie's already picking up his phone. It only rings once before Xabi answers on the other end.

“Hey, honey!” Stevie greets his husband enthusiastically. “Do you think Sergio has any decent friends we could introduce to Finns?”

x-x-x

The first thing to rise on Daniel’s mind upon finding Xabi waiting for him at the studio is that he really should start listening to Steve and lock his door. The second is that he’s screwed.

It is no coincidence that Xabi's here now, of course. Daniel hadn’t considered it properly, but now that he does, with unfortunate belatedness, he can’t really imagine why in God’s name he wasn’t expecting this confrontation to happen sometime soon. Which leads him to wonder why he hadn't started preparing for it, because now that it did happen, he simply hasn't got a clue what to do, but he can bet Xabi's not going to leave without a good enough explanation.

It's bad enough that he doesn't know what to do about Steve, who he really does owe an explanation to. Now he's got to deal with Xabi as well. If there was ever any ways in which his already dire situation could've gone from bad to worse, then it just did.

“Xabi,” he says, still a little stunned and unsure of what to say. 

The Spaniard stares at him frostily, making it clear that there will be no pleasantries whatsoever this time around. "I see you still keep your door unlocked.”

“I was only gone for a second to get something to eat.” He pauses, scratching the back of his head. “What are you doing here?” he asks. He’s not sure whether attempting an innocent approach will make the hit any smoother, but what the hell. Not like he's got many more cards to play.

“I was trying to decide which one of those paintings is Fernando. It’s hard, though… Maybe they’re all him,” he says, looking around at the sea of canvases across the room. Daniel feels a cold shiver going up his spine. Xabi has always intimidated him; unlike Stevie, he always seemed very supportive of his and Steve’s relationship, if anything than at least for Steve's sake, but there’s something very calculating about him. Stevie’s loud and all over the place when it comes do Steve, whilst Xabi merely keeps it to himself, but Daniel’s pretty sure he’s just as protective of his friend as his husband is. And if Dan should be intimidated by one of them, it should definitely be of Xabi. The quiet ones are always the worst.

“Don’t look so surprised, Daniel,” he continues when the Dane doesn’t come up with anything even remotely up to the standards to say. “You can’t have honestly expected me not to find out. If you did, you’re every bit as dumb as Steven thinks you are.” Daniel bites his lower lip, but still doesn’t reply. In some subconscious level, he knows what he’s doing would not go on unpunished for too long. He just forgot to remember that. “So he wasn’t hallucinating when he said you’d been to our flat the other day after all. You were there, you saw Fernando, you fled before either he or Finns, or both, could find out what you’re up to. Frankly, Daniel, isn’t it enough to be an ass to Finns? Why do you have to drag another innocent person into your -”

“This is none of your business, Xabi.” 

“Excuse me?” Xabi looks vaguely amused at Daniel cutting him off in the middle of a scolding he very much deserves. “How is accidentally finding out that one of my best friends is being cheated on for the hundredth time by his jerk of a boyfriend with another one of my friends not of my business? Trust me, Daniel, I really wish I could unlearn all this, but unfortunately there is not a chance I can have that sort of knowledge and not make it my business.”

Daniel opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to come up with the right words, but how will he ever explain anything to Xabi if not even he fully understands what’s going on? “It’s complicated,” is all he manages, and by the look on Xabi’s face it’s pretty clear that is not good enough to appease him.

“It’s a bloody massive mess, Daniel; it is most definitely nothing short of complication. But do you know what? I don't give a damn. If you expect to win my sympathy, you should think again. I don't care what you do or how you do it, you’re gonna have to fix this situation, or I will. And trust me, it will be a lot worse when they both get to hear the truth from me.”

“You... You didn’t tell Fernando yet?” Xabi rolls his eyes and sighs, wearily. The level of shit this situation just reached is still considerably high, but Daniel feels a weight being lifted away from his heart - although he’s got no idea what good that makes. Xabi’s still out there to get him.

“Not _yet_ ,” the Spaniard replies. “Think of this as an act of generosity. I am giving you the chance to save a little bit of dignity, if you still have any, and at the very least be honest for once. It’s the least they deserve. Especially Finns.” Xabi’s impassively icy expression changes, and the hard lines around his eyes and mouth become visibly more angered. “I can’t understand how you can do something like that to him. After everything he’s put up with for you, everything he’s given you… He doesn’t deserve to be treated this way.”

“I know, ok? No one knows that better than me. I think about it every minute of every hour of every fucking day.”

“Oh, really? You could’ve had me fooled.”

“It’s not that simple, Xabi.”

“You vowed to be faithful to a person and you’re not. It’s very straightforward.”

“I’m not just fooling around!” Daniel nearly shouts now, and the ferocity in his voice quiets Xabi down for a second. “He’s not… Just a fuck. Fernando’s not just a fuck.”

"Then how would you describe what you’re doing?”

“I don’t know, ok? I don’t like this situation either, I don’t feel good going behind Steve’s back. I admit that I’ve done my share of stupidities in the past, but it’s different this time. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“You could try that on anyone, Dan, but not on me. You know very well how many times I’ve had to comfort Finns after you did something completely moronic. Don’t expect me to believe your bullshit now.”

“It’s not bullshit! It’s… it’s… madness!”

“Is that how you artists are calling it?”

“I’m fucking serious, Xabi! I can’t explain it to you! I didn’t want to cheat on Steve, I haven’t been with anyone else in years. I was determined to never hurt him again like that, but then I met Fernando and I just couldn’t get him out of my fucking head! It’s like he just crawled under my skin and refused to leave! Do you see these?” Daniel walks around the Spaniard, pointing towards the paintings everywhere around them. “None of that was here two weeks ago. Before Fernando, I couldn’t so much as touch a fucking brush. I hadn’t set foot in this studio in months ‘cause I wanted to kill myself every time I came here and nothing happened. I’m sure you heard about this, ‘cause I was being a fucking prick to Steve for no reason. And then Fernando happened and…” He just opens his arms, motioning towards his work, and lets them fall heavily against his sides again. “It all came back. It’s like I never even stopped.”

Xabi is quiet for a moment. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that I love Steve, but I met someone else and now I can’t stop thinking about him, can’t stop painting him, and I don’t know what that means. I’ve never depended on one person for inspiration before. I don’t know what that makes me - I don’t know what that makes of Fernando. All I know is that I fucking hate myself every single day for what I’m doing to Steve, I can’t even bear to look at him. But then… I get near Fernando and it’s like he doesn’t even exist. I’m ashamed to say this, but… I simply forget everything else.”

Xabi shifts his weight from one leg to the other, turning away from Daniel, seemingly uncomfortable rather than simply annoyed and outraged. “That’s not making your situation any better. I don’t sympathize with you simply _forgetting_ about Finns. If anything, that makes you even worse.”

“Look, I know you’re not my biggest fan -”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Fine. I deserve that. I accept that I’ve been an ass to Steve and I’ve put him through a lot of shit. But even you know I’m crazy about him. I have always been! I would do absolutely anything for Steve -”

“Except be loyal to him, it seems.”

“I can’t help it, Xabi! I don’t mean to hurt him, I never did, but I can’t undo it! I tried to stay away from Fernando - _Jesus Christ_ , how I tried. I was never going to see him again, I swear to God. But then I went to your bloody party and he was there! I’m not fooling around, I’m just trying to figure out what’s happening. I don’t want to hurt Steve, but I can’t let go of Fernando either.”

There’s a strange look in the other man’s eyes as he seems almost pained, clenching his teeth like he’s either trying to keep from retching or from punching Daniel. The Dane takes a step back, just in case. He’s too screwed up already, he doesn’t need a black eye to go with the rest.

“Do you want me to pity you and let you keep both your boyfriends? Fernando is pretty convinced that’s what’s he’s going to be in a very little while.”

“No… No, that’s not… I don’t want you to pity me, no.” Dan scrubs his face with his hands, suddenly feeling every bit as exhausted as his recent sleep deprivation, bad eating and excessive work would make him. “I just need some time, Xabi. That’s all. I promise you I will fix this. Or not fix it, whatever. But I’ll tell them the truth. Both of them. I just want to figure out what to say first.”

“You mean you want to pick your favorite.”

“I can’t just fucking end a four years relationship for the first guy who makes me doubt it like it doesn’t mean anything, can I?”

“And finding yourself a new boyfriend is valuing it, how?”

Daniel grunts loudly, pulling at his hair. “Dear God, Xabi! You’re not listening!”

“No, you don’t Dear God me.” Xabi takes two purposeful steps towards him, pointing his index finger to Dan’s face. “You’re being incredibly selfish, Daniel, because you’re toying around with two people who care about you, a lot. You’re keeping both of them in the dark for your own benefit. Fernando thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him and Steve would walk the Earth with burning shoes for your cheating bastard ass. Taking your time to test-drive both of them like you’re picking which car to ditch is egoistical and greedy.” That’s it, Daniel thinks. He’s gonna tell Steve, and then he’ll tell Fernando and he’s just going to lose both of them at once. 

But then Xabi moves away from him again, his features appear to soften up a little as his eyes flicker momentarily away from Dan’s. “I’m not going to say anything,” he says. “ _For now_. But don’t think I’m backing you up, Daniel. You don’t have infinite time, so you better hurry and not screw this up further. You either want to stay with Finns or you want to stay with Fernando, and regardless of what you decide, you’ll have to come clean to both of them.”

The Dane suddenly relaxes muscles he didn’t even realize were tense, letting out a breath it felt as though he’d been holding for days. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Xabi stops close to one of the paintings and Daniel feels his insides twisting as the other man does exactly what he can’t stand to have anyone doing - anyone but Fernando, apparently. But kicking Xabi out would probably be pushing his luck too far, so he merely balls his hands into fists. “This is gorgeous,” he comments. “I hate it.”

“You should really start locking your door,” Xabi adds before walking out. And he does make sure to slam it shut like a thunder behind him. Daniel flinches, although whether it’s from the noise or something else he doesn’t know. 

Not long after Xabi leaves, the Dane feels his mobile vibrating. A text from Fernando. _‘Mercy tonight?’_

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Maybe Xabi doesn’t understand, but he’s not entirely wrong. Dan needs to set this straight and he needs to start with Steve. He should go home tonight, stay with his boyfriend, talk to him, anything. But the gap between the things Daniel Agger should do and the things he actually does have always been so terribly large…

He decides to give himself one more chance to be with Fernando, feel him, taste him. It’s the night of truth. After that he’ll be ready to make his decision. _‘Will be there’_ he types back and hits send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistakes! English is not my first language and unfortunately the story hasn't been beta'ed! So sorry. :(


	9. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How they got here - Part I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Here's how I decided to do this. This chapter is not exactly part of the story, not of the current timeline anyway. It's backstory on Finns and Daniel and how they started seeing each other (with cameo by Stevie). The first time I posted this, it was totally random, somewhere really soon into the story, and it was split in two parts. I didn't think it made a lot of sense, so I decided to think things over this time.
> 
> I considered the part of the story we're heading into right now and I think it will add to the dramatic weight of the next few chapters, knowing the characters' past. Also, I compiled both parts into one and now we have a larger chapter. :D After this, we'll have another chapter that will be the combination of two, and then another bit of backstory that is actually new, as I had never posted the first time. This will be followed by another chapter that is almost entirely new. So if there's anyone out there reading this story for the second time (is there?), the next few parts might seem a little different. I hope it works out.
> 
> Y'all know Finns is my favorite out of the bunch, so I really enjoyed giving him a bit of depth with this part. I guess knowing where he came from helps to understand his motivations. 
> 
> I hope you guys like it and pleeeeeeeeease let me know your thoughts! I love reading your comments, seriously! <3 It makes my day!

Finns frowns at the sight of a homeless person sitting on the front steps of his building. It’s not such a common thing on this side of the city. He’s certainly never seen one near his flat. Homeless people aren’t usually allowed to sleep comfortably close to the fancy apartment buildings on his street. They try, because it's warmer and calmer and also safer to be around these areas, but it never takes more than ten minutes before some heartless asshole calls the coppers and have them taken somewhere else, like dumping people far from their sights actually solves anything. 

Upon further inspection, though, he realizes it’s not a homeless person.

It’s the guy he slept with a few nights before and who has been stalking him fervently since then. The fact he's mistaken the man for a street junkie says a lot about how drunk Finns was on that night. He would've preferred it to be a burglar with a knife, to be honest. 

This situation is getting ridiculous. It’s the third time the guy shows up. In the previous two, Finns was lucky enough to be home late from work, so he didn’t have to deal with him - but he did get a couple of filthy notes under his door. Annoying, yes, but harmless. Now, however, the lad seems to have decided to wait, in spite of the fact none of his notes ever got responded. Some people just don't know how to take a hint.

Steve stops, considers turning around and walking back to his car, going somewhere else for a while and waiting out for the guy to give up. But he’s tired, he wants his bathtub and his bed; he wants to slip out of his suit and put on his sweatpants and eat that frozen lasagna he has in his fridge. He can’t let some random pick-up keep him away from his own home.

He needs to end this now or this guy will never give up. Steve has no idea how much of a creep he actually is, maybe he’ll need a restraining order against him. If that’s the case, it’s best that he finds out soon.

Taking a deep, weary breath, he walks the last few meters towards the entrance of his building. The man raises his head upon hearing the sound of footsteps close by, like a watchdog, and immediately brightens upon spotting him.

“What are you doing here, Daniel?” he asks, flatly.

“I was waiting for you,” the kid replies, beaming like a child on Christmas morning, happy enough that Steve at least still remembers his name.

“Yeah, I figured. I meant why the hell are you waiting for me?”

“Because you wouldn’t give me your number, so that’s the only way I’d find you again.”

“I think I made it pretty clear that you weren’t supposed to find me again when I refused to give you my number.” Steve writes himself a mental note: never take one-night stands back to your flat, ever again. Letting them know where you live is the same as giving them a choice of never leaving you alone again. Do _not_ give them that choice.

Daniel shrugs, not at all muddled by the rejection. “I don’t care.”

“Look, that’s cute, ok? But it’s not going to happen.”

“We had a good time.”

“Yes, sex was great, thank you for that.”

“Well, then. Why don’t you invite me in and we can do it again?” Daniel says, giving him a come-hither look whilst trying his best to seem seductive. Steve has to make some effort not to laugh. He’s way too young for that kind of thing, and the Mohawk really doesn't help. 

“I’m sorry, Daniel, but no. You seem like a nice lad, ok? But I’m not interested. I’m sure there are plenty of boys who’d love your company at Mercy, though.”

“I don’t want plenty of boys, I want you.”

“Dear God…” Steve shakes his head and walks past him, entering the building. Daniel follows him behind like a little puppy; he’d definitely be shaking his tail if he had one. “Dirk,” Steve calls the doorman.

The sympathetic Dutchman approaches him with a solicitous smile. “Yes, Mr. Finnan?”

“See this kid here?” He points towards Daniel, standing behind him with big, expectant eyes. Steve feels almost sorry for Daniel - just almost, but not quite. “Don’t ever let him into the building, understand? If he tries to follow me, call the police. If he shows up again, call the police too.”

Dirk moves his eyes from Steve to Daniel, visibly concerned. “Y-yes, Mr. Finnan,” he stammers. “Should I call the police now?” The worry on Dirk’s face probably means he’s wondering whether the guy’s dangerous, like a burglar or something. The excessive use of eyeliner and the worn out clothes don't usually cause a very good impression at buildings like Steve's either. 

“Nah, he’s gonna be a good kid and leave on his own, aren’t you, Daniel?”

“No!” the younger man protests, all indignation. “I thought you were going to let me in!”

“I told you that’s not going to happen, and frankly I have no idea how I can be any clearer. If you choose to ignore it, then that’s your own problem. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired and I need a shower. Good night, Dirk, and don’t give him any information, ok?” he says, smiling at his still dumbfounded doorman, before turning to Daniel. 

The kid is a mix of hurt and anger and Steve hates being rude to people, even people he doesn’t know or doesn’t necessarily care for. But Daniel’s not his problem. Steve can’t be accused of leading him on with false hope. Since the very beginning he made it clear that he was not looking for anything more than a casual fuck. He really did have a good time and Daniel did do a pretty good job in bed, he could even consider hooking up with him again, sometime, maybe, if only he hadn’t turned out to be such a stalking creep. “Daniel, I wish you all the best, but don’t come back.”

The young man grunts in frustration and storms out of the building. Steve breathes out relieved. One less problem for him to deal with. “That’s better, then,” he says, smiling at Dirk and heading for the elevator.

x-x-x

_One week later…_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Steve says as he opens the door to find Daniel standing outside with a self-satisfied smile on his face. 

“I told you, I don’t give up so easily.”

“What, in God’s name, do you want?”

“I want you to let me in.”

“You’re not going to. If that’s all -” Steve tries to shut the door, but Daniel stops him and pushes it back with a lot more strength than Steve imagined he could muster with his slim, young body. 

“Just hear me out!” Dan pleads, getting half his body inside the flat to keep Steve from slamming the door on his face.

Steve shuts his eyes, counts to ten and pulls the door open, making way for Daniel to come in. The boy beams at him, victorious, and rushes inside before he changes his mind. “I am so going to regret this,” Steve says under his breath, more to himself than to the kid. He kicks the door shut and exhales, annoyed. “You didn’t murder Dirk to get in, did you?”

“Of course not,” Daniel replies. “I just had to give him a blow job.”

Steve’s eyebrows fly up in astonishment. “You… what?”

Daniel shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like he does it all the time. Frankly, Steve is not really surprised that this kid would blow someone just to get some favor in return. He seems to be just as twisted as that would suggest. What’s most impressive is that Dirk, a happily married man, father of four children, would take oral sex from a punk as payment. 

He’s not sure whether he should be amazed at the revelation or worried, because, honestly, if a blow job is all it takes for Dirk to let a man he should’ve called the police at the sight of in, then his and all his neighbors’ safety is in real jeopardy. 

“I am just going to assume you’re joking.”

“You can assume whatever you want.” 

Steve shakes his head and goes into the kitchen, taking a white wine from his cellar fridge. He’s gonna need some alcohol in his system for this.

Daniel follows him, leaning over his counter. “I’ll have one too, thank you.”

“You’re not having anything,” Finns says, pouring wine into one single glass. His glass. “You’re just about to leave.”

“How do you know that?”

“If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to bring the police into this.”

“Then stop stalking me.”

“I’m not stalking you.”

“Really?” He takes a large gulp from his glass. “How would you describe what you’re doing, then?”

“I’m persistent.”

“Persistently stalking me. That’s a criminal offense.” 

“I don’t care.”

“You said you wanted me to hear you out. You have two minutes.”

Daniel exhales heavily. “Look, Steve, I know all we had was one night, ok? And I know how one-night stands work. I’ve had plenty.”

“You could’ve fooled me on that one.”

“What I’m saying is that you’re not like the guys I usually hook up with at Mercy. I really like you.”

“You decided you like me after one night? You don’t even know me.”

“I know it sounds weird, it’s not something that happens to me very often either. But that’s a statement of how much I liked you. Just one night and I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Steve knocks back the rest of his wine and shakes his head. Brilliant, he thinks. That’s definitely all he needs, a near teenager obsessing over him. He should start listening to Stevie about not sleeping with younger men.

“That’s… sweet,” he starts. “But I’m not your guy. I’m not interested in a relationship right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be a relationship. Just sex is fine.”

“If it’s just sex you want, then you definitely don’t need me.”

“But I want _you_.”

Steve leans back against his sink and scrubs a hand over his face. This is too exhausting. 

Daniel takes purposeful steps towards him and, almost like a soldier, drops to his knees, placing his hands on Steve’s hips and looking up at him, pleadingly, just waiting for a signal to start his ministrations. Steve frowns. “Please, Steve,” he says.

The Irishman considers pushing him away, but, well, fuck. This kid is not going to take a no for an answer. Sighing, he cups Daniel’s chin, caressing his lower lip gently with the tip of his thumb. His freckles are adorable, but it makes him look so much younger. Daniel really does have a ravishing mouth, though. It gives Steve all sorts of nasty ideas.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” The kid just shakes his head. “I just told you I don’t want to have anything to do with you and your answer is to offer to give me head. Where’s your dignity?”

Dan smirks. “No one has dignity at 21.”

The older man has to laugh at that, because it is actually true. He can’t imagine himself ever doing anything like that these days, but he has a case history of sucking off jackasses back in his early twenties as well.

"Please..." Daniel repeats.

“Please, what?” he asks, around a sigh, and Daniel closes his fist around Steve’s trousers. “Please kiss me? Please fuck my mouth?” He drags every word, enunciating them slow and emphatically, making it sound absolutely filthy. Daniel shifts before him. “Please let me suck your dick? You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Everything,” Dan says, his lips parted, needy and desperate. “Please everything.”

Steve grins. “You’re a very greedy young man.” He pushes one finger inside Daniel’s mouth, then two, and watches as the boy sucks on it fervently. “You’d do anything I tell you to, wouldn’t you?” Daniel nods, but doesn’t let go. “Such a little slut… All right. You’ll get what you want. Get up and go to the bedroom.”

Radiating, he gets up and hurries off to the room. Steve lags back for a moment, pouring himself some more wine and undoing his tie with one hand. This will be the last time, he tells himself. If it’s a fuck Daniel wants, it’s a fuck Daniel will get, and then he’s out of his flat and of his life, for good. 

But he’ll give the boy something to remember him by.

When he gets to the bedroom, Daniel is lying on his bed, leaning on one elbow, his head thrown back and mouth hanging open as he strokes himself leisurely.

Steve stops by the door, takes a sip of his wine, admiring the view. It takes Daniel a moment to notice he’s not alone anymore, and when he does, he fixes Steve with a positively dirty grin, intensifying the speed of his strokes and parting his thighs just that one bit more to give him a better view of the show.

The Irishman takes a seat on his armchair on the corner of the room, shifting a little uncomfortably, the bulge in his trousers already a nuisance. “Who said you were allowed to touch yourself already?” Dan gives him a weird look, but doesn’t stop. “Stop it and get on your knees again. Ah-ah - not here, right there,” he points to a spot a little further away from him when Daniel moves to approach. 

If he absolutely has to do this, then he’s going to make the best of the situation.

“That’s right.” He takes another sip of his wine. “That’s uncomfortable, isn’t it? Your cock rock-hard, aching with a desperate need to be touched, and you can’t do anything about it.” Daniel swallows down hard, his eyes sparkling with lust. “Take off your shirt.”

The boy does as he’s commanded, throwing the ragged t-shirt on the floor and revealing his tattooed torso. Steve hadn’t really taken his time to appreciate the art covering half of the other man’s body before. Tattoos aren’t exactly his thing, never were, not even when he was 21 and rebellious himself. But they do look good on Daniel, he’ll give him that. Makes Steve want to outline each and every single drawing on his skin with his tongue.

“I think I like you better like this, you know?” he says, conversationally. His apparent disregard for the other man’s erection registers on Daniel’s face in a pained grimace. “You were all bossy and persevering just a minute ago, refusing to get the hell out, and now here you are… Doing everything I command you.”

“Could you just -”

“I couldn’t just anything. You wanted to stay, you’re staying. But it’s going to be on my terms.” The authoritarian tone of his voice seems to be enough to shut Daniel up, as he swallows back down whatever protest he thought of making. “Good. Now, be gone with the rest of your clothes and then get down again.”

Daniel does as he asks - stands up to step out of his trousers and underwear, letting Steve finally get a good view of what he’s about to have. Younger men can be overenthusiastic and exhausting sometimes, but they also generally look incredibly hot. That is definitely a plus. 

“Turn around, facing the wall.” Daniel frowns and Steve rolls his eyes at him. “The more you protest, the longer you’ll suffer before you get what you want. I’m going to make you beg for it, Daniel. You’re gonna have to earn it. Now, turn and stay facing the wall, I want to see your arse.”

Visibly displeased but also burning with desire, he does so, bending over just that tiny little bit to tilt his ass towards Steve and give him a better look. Steve downs down the rest of his wine, shifting uncomfortably in his seat once more as he feels his cock swelling inside his now very tight trousers. He’s gonna have to do something about this very soon, but torturing Daniel is so, so good…

“You are so beautiful,” he says. “A pain in the arse, but beautiful. I like your tattoos.”

“Thank you,” Dan says, clearly between greeted teeth, his hands balled into fists next to him as he does his best not to touch himself.

“Tell me again what you want.”

“I want -”

“No. That’s not how you’re supposed to say it.”

Daniel is quiet for a moment, and when he talks, he’s practically chewing on his own words. “Please, let me suck you,” he starts. “Please, fuck me.”

Steve chuckles. “You hate this, don’t you? You hate it that I’m making you beg.”

“I’m not a beggar.”

“No, you’re not. Which is exactly why I’m turning you into one. Maybe this will teach you to obey when someone tells you to leave them alone.”

Steve puts his glass down and stands up to crouch beside Daniel, sliding a hand down the curve of his spine. The younger man writhes under his touch, burning hot, and makes a pleased, startled noise. Steve leans over and kisses the back of his neck, then his shoulder. “You’re being a good boy,” he says, reaching around to pinch Daniel’s nipples. The other man bucks against him, searching for as much contact as he can, rubbing himself against Steve’s front. “In fact, you’ve been so good I’m gonna let you suck my cock.” He stands up again, and starts undoing his belt. When he finally frees his cock, he lets a long, filthy moan out, and watches as Daniel seems to shiver at the sound of it. “Go on. You can turn now.”

With one desperate move, Daniel turns around and launches forward, burying his nose on Steve’s crotch before swallowing him up, greedy and desperate. Steve combs his fingers through his Mohawk, messing it all up, as the boy’s head bobs against him. “You should grow your hair,” he comments, breath faltering as he feels Dan’s tongue swirling around his dick’s head. “I don’t have anything to grab onto like this.”

Dan pulls away for a second to look up at him, and smiles. “You mean you’re still going to be around when my hair grows?”

Steve stops, frowns, and curses himself for his little slip. “I didn’t say you could stop,” he retorts, dismissing the subject and returning Daniel to his task. As long as his mouth is full, he won’t be able to talk.

The initial franticness suddenly dissipates as Daniel concentrates on sucking on Steve’s dick like his life depends on it; he’s masterful and perfect and doesn’t miss an inch, taking him down his throat and then stopping to suck on his balls and rubbing his prick against his cheeks. It’s almost too much for Steve to watch, so he shuts his eyes and concentrates on the feelings instead, because the imagery alone can make him come already and he’s not nearly done with Daniel yet.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt, carefully, before letting it slide down his shoulders and pool around his feet on the floor. Daniel pulls away and starts kissing the inside of his thighs and then up, leaving a wet trail up his abdomen, his stomach, stopping a little on his chest, worrying his nipples with his teeth, before he’s standing straight once more and biting on Steve’s neck.

“I don’t remember telling you to do this either,” Steve mumbles, but doesn’t stop him. He’s actually very good at this as well. Dan attacks his mouth, invading it with his tongue in a plundering kiss, and Steve indulges him for a moment, before pushing him away and nodding towards the bed. “Lie down.”

Gladly, Daniel does so, spreading his legs wide for him. “Touch yourself,” Steve commands as he steps out of his own trousers, and Daniel, again, obliges, releasing a loud moan as he finally sees to his own needs. “Suck your fingers.” And he does so. Steve’s cock twitches at the sight. It’s a pretty picture, and Daniel doesn’t seem to be able to decide whether he wants to keep licking his own fingers or to shove them up his own ass while he strokes himself furiously. 

The Irishman climbs on the bed, positioning himself between Dan’s legs, and the boy immediately presses his thighs around him. Steve leans over him to reach the night table and get the drawer out, fumbling around it for the lube and a rubber. 

He puts on the condom and Daniel immediately grabs his arms, pulling him down and thrusting his ass against Steve’s crotch. He pins Daniel’s arms up his head and kisses him gently on the lips, bruised and swollen from sucking too hard. “No hands,” he says. “You’re going to keep yours like this, do you understand? You’re not allowed to move.”

“Fuck, Steve,” he groans in frustration, but keeps his arms up, absolutely split between maddening arousal and utter agony.

“Have you jerked off thinking of me?” Steve asks as he slicks his cock and fingers with the lube.

“Yes,” Daniel says, as though that would be the magic word to make Steve stop dancing around and just fuck him.

“How many times?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“Really?” Daniel stiffens under him when he feels Steve’s finger around his hole, and then relaxes, pushing himself down as far as he can to get him inside. Steve decides to release him a little from his torment. Dan tries to clench down on his fingers as he slicks him with the lube, moaning loud. When he pulls his hand away, Daniel almost shouts, which steals a bit of a laughter from Steve. 

“Jesus Christ, Steve!”

“What did I say about begging?”

“Please, please, _please_ , just get on with it.”

“Because…?” he teases Dan by rubbing his head against his entrance, and laughs again as the other man tries desperately to slide down onto it.

“Because I need you to fuck me right now!” Another moan as he pushes inside, and Daniel writhes and wriggles. “Please, get in there. Please… Oh, fuck. God, I hate you.”

“Do you?” He’s entirely amused and just as desperate to fuck Daniel as the boy is to get his ass pounded. But he fears that if he acts on his desire right now, he’ll finish him too fast. Once he starts properly fucking him, it will be wild and insane, and the point here it to teach him something, even if Steve can’t exactly remember what himself. “I thought you liked me.”

“I’ll like you again as soon as you - _oh, fuck_ … As soon as you get on with it.”

He puts a hand on Dan’s stomach, putting him down to make him stop moving. He’s still in control here and he’ll have Daniel when he wants and how he wants and Daniel will stay and wait because there’s nothing else he can do. Daniel’s his bitch tonight. That’s probably not what he had in mind when he got there, smug and presumptuous, thinking he was just going to throw Steve in bed and slam inside him like a boss.

Daniel had been controlling and full of himself the first time they had sex - taking the lead like a force of nature. And it had been brilliant, really. But dominating someone as unrestrained and with such an obstinate and aggressive personality as Daniel… Damn, that is so, _so_ much better.

Steve pulls out again, and Dan lets out a guttural cry. He thrusts in once more, but not too far, and continues to do this until Daniel is almost dislocating his torso from trying too hard to slam down against him while not moving his hands. Not too much, not too hard, just teasing him while he despairs. 

“Fuck, Steve,” he pants. “Please… please… Move!”

Feeling his own orgasm building rapidly, he finally goes all the way in and delights himself in the beautiful, glorious sensation of that tight, hot body clamping around him. He put Daniel’s legs on his shoulders to facilitate the access, folding his body in half, and starts to properly gallop him, hard and merciless, hitting his sweet spot with every thrust to make him scream.

It's too much for Daniel to keep his eyes open, but when Steve starts stroking him, touching his already rigid balls, he throws his head back, writhing and whimpering, and comes with a loud, long moan.

Steve continues to pound into him as Daniel tries to catch his breath, deep and gulping to quick and rasping, his body suddenly turning into water under Steve’s hands. He lets go of his legs and leans down, ravaging Daniel’s mouth and biting on his lips. With one last, hard thrust, he comes inside the other man, muffling his groan against his neck, riding out his orgasm. He can feel Dan’s heart beating manically in his chest, pressed up against Steve’s own pounding one, and for a moment he feels like it might explode.

They stay like this for a while, breathing in each other’s scents, entangled in a sticky mess of Daniel’s come and sweat, until Steve can finally find it in him to speak again. Dan’s arms are still up. “You can let go now,” he says, and Daniel just nods, not opening his eyes, putting his arms down, around Steve’s back.

Daniel’s breathing is finally slow and it evens out Steve’s own, makes him more relaxed. Exhaustion suddenly creeps up inside him, his long day of work and then this crazy fuck making his muscles sore and his eyelids heavy.

He finally slides out of Dan and rolls around to lie on his back, inhaling deeply, and then lets the air out, slowly. He takes off the rubber, ties it with a knot and throws it on the floor. Steve takes a look at the alarm clock on the night table - it’s already midnight. With a displeased grunt, he gets up and goes to the bathroom, searching around his cabinet for clean towels. When he returns to the room, Daniel’s sitting up, red-faced and eyes sparkling with a hopeful kind of look.

He might have just created an even bigger problem for himself.

Steve throws him a towel and starts cleaning himself up a bit with the other. “You were very good,” he compliments.

Dan smirks. “Thanks,” he says, his face telling that what he really wants to say is ‘Duh, of course’. “You too.”

“I know.”

“So…” the younger man starts. “Are we going to be doing this again?”

Steve sighs, worn out. “You can barely walk and you’re already talking about doing it again.”

“I could do it again right now.”

Steve lets out a short laugh. “Don’t kid yourself, Daniel. You’d be in agonizing pain if someone tried to fuck you like that again right now.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I can take it.”

“Well, then you can go take it somewhere else. I had a very long day.”

“Oh.” His eyes lose a bit of its glint for a moment as he shrinks back into himself with a sad drop of his shoulders. His mouth twists into a downcast curve and suddenly he looks every bit as young as he really is. Steve remembers being 21 and hyper about everything, jumping head-first into things that turned out not to be so great after all not too long after. He remembers falling in love two, three times every week, willing to give himself entirely to people he’d likely never see again in his life. He used to be like this, too, and, frankly, it wasn’t really that long ago, although it feels like a lifetime sometimes, especially with Daniel around. 

The boy probably can’t stand to have round two so soon either, but he’s willing to do it just to show Steve that he can be a keeper, if that’s what it takes. That’s sweet, in a way, but also kind of sad. He knows Daniel is going to walk out and fall in love five, six more times this week or this month, but having your heart broken is never easy, even if it doesn’t last too long.

With a sigh that means he knows he’ll regret this, he throws the towel away and says, “You can stay.”

Dan’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, whatever. It’s late anyway, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you getting stabbed or anything.”

“I’m always out late. I know how to -”

“Do you want to stay or not?”

“Yes! Of course!” He’s beaming again and Steve can’t really help but smile back at him, although also shaking his head.

“You’ll have to get up early. I need to go to work in the morning.”

“No problem.”

“And you’ll have to _sleep_ as well, because I need to get some rest.”

“I’m exhausted. I’ll sleep like a baby.”

“Good.”

Steve climbs back in bed, sets his alarm clock and covers himself with the duvet. He turns to the side as to not face Daniel and feels as the boy tucks himself under the cover with him and then presses up behind his body, spooning Steve and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Thank you,” Daniel says, punctuating it with a kiss on Steve's neck.

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I kiss you good night?”

Steve frowns. “What are you, nine?”

“It’s just a kiss.”

“Whatever,” he says around a sigh, but shifts around a bit so that Dan can kiss him. It’s a languid, thorough kind of kiss, not at all the peck Steve was expecting, but he kisses back anyway. Dan’s a good kisser.

When he pulls away, he smiles. “Good night, Steve.”

He watches the boy with a strange look about his face for a moment, wondering when exactly during the night he started warming up to the other man. His heart is beating faster in his chest and he has no idea why.

“Uhum,” he mumbles in acknowledgment and turns back to the side, feeling Daniel settling back behind him.

He thinks that this is not nearly as bad as it should be, and that having Daniel stick around for the night wasn’t such a terrible idea. It feels good to have another warm body next to his, and he can’t really remember when was the last time that he’d felt this much at ease with someone. Probably Stevie, and Stevie was a long time ago. 

He wants to go deeper into it, to find the reason or the explanation. It’s how his brain works, it wants perfectly defined logics to everything. But Steve’s way too tired and the slow move of Daniel’s chest heaving against his back is lulling him into sleep. And suddenly that’s all there is.

x-x-x  
Steve walks into his office and finds a fully grown man swirling around on his guest chair like a little boy at an amusement park. 

He stops, blinks and slowly shuts the door behind him. “What are you doing in my office?” 

“Waiting for a meeting that should’ve started twenty minutes ago.” 

“I sent you a text.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Not my problem.” 

Steve walks past his best friend, puts his suitcase on his desk and starts checking the notes his secretary left for him there. “What is this meeting about anyway? You never said.” 

“That Abramovich arsehole.” 

“What about him?” 

“A lot. But first I would like to know who was so good that got your painstaking arse late.” 

Steve checks his wristwatch; he’s 25 minutes late, to be precise. Usually, he’s ten minutes early. He doesn’t think there’s a record, anywhere, about him ever arriving at a meeting, or a class, or anything at all in history, later than Stevie. He’s been late _with_ him, never _after_ him. But what’s most impressive about this is how Stevie knows exactly what the reason of his belatedness is. 

“That’s the part where you’re supposed to deny it, Finns. It’s not funny if you don’t.” 

“I’m kind of in awe,” he says. “How do you know?” 

Stevie snorts. “Like I don’t know what you look like when you’re well-shagged.” 

Finns cocks him an eyebrow. “I have a well-shagged face?” 

“Only the most obvious one.” 

“How come you never told me that?” Steve takes his mobile out of his pocket and uses the camera to check his appearance. It seems... Normal. What the hell is a well-shagged face like anyway? 

Stevie shrugs, giving him a lopsided grin. “Why would I?” 

“That’s not something I want to advertise.” 

“Why not? People look at you with envy when they know you had good sex. Most of them are just frustrated.” 

“I don’t want to rub it on sexually frustrated people’s face that I had sex.” 

“Look at Xabi, for instance,” Stevie continues. “You can try all you want, you’ll never be able to tell what he’s been up to with that poker face of his.” 

“Good for him.” 

“Good for him, awful for me.” 

“Why?” 

“First, if he ever goes behind my back, I’ll never know.” 

Finns just rolls his eyes. “Like that’s ever gonna happen…” 

“Second,” Stevie continues, ignoring him. “No one can tell what a great lover he has at home. If they could, it would be a testament to my sexual prowess.” 

“Oh, God.” Steve shakes his head at his friend, sits down and turns on his computer to check his e-mails. 

“So. Shoot.” 

“Don’t we have anything more important to discuss?” 

“I want names.” 

“Regardless of what you might think, Stevie, my sex life is none of your business.” 

“Maybe not of my business, but it is certainly of my interest. I didn’t know you were going out last night. Why didn’t you invite me?” 

“I didn’t go out.” He stops. “And why would I invite you?” 

“I’m your going out buddy.” 

“Not if I want to have sex, you’re not.” 

Stevie rolls his eyes and ignores him again. Stevie is good at doing that, ignoring things that aren’t exactly favorable to him. That way he can just refuse to having ever heard anything of the subject whenever it is brought up and he feels suit. 

“But if you didn’t go out, then who -” Stevie stops talking abruptly. His eyes widen for just a second as he comes to a realization before the creases between his eyebrows deepen further. “Stephen!” he exclaims. “Tell me you fucking didn’t!” 

“Fucking didn't what?” 

“You did! You fucking slut, you did!” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“You’re not supposed to let stalkers into your fucking place! You have to kick them out and let them know they’re not welcome!” 

Oh. Right. 

Steve shared his problem with the stalking kid with his friend. It was starting to drive him crazy to have that kid following him around and Stevie is, as he made obvious once more, very good at noticing when something’s not right with his spirit. In fact, Stevie and Xabi were with him the day he met Daniel at the nightclub, and Stevie had been quick to point out that he was a moron to be taking home a kid with a Mohawk. In Stevie’s defense, Finns probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been drunk. But he was. And he did. And then he got stalked, regretted it awfully, until he decided to let Daniel in and had a thoroughly pleasing night. So much so that he completely forgot how deeply Stevie disapproved of his fling. 

“I did, Stevie,” he admits, calmly. “I threatened to call the police, I told Dirk never to let him into the building again, but he found his way in anyway. What was I supposed to do?” 

“Not let him inside your flat would be a start.” 

“He was there, he refused to leave, he offered to blow me, I was in the mood… It was just sex. What’s so wrong about it?” 

“He sucks you off and you let him stay for the night? You’re so fucking easy, Finns.” 

“It was late when we finished,” Steve says. It’s the same thing he told Daniel to justify his one-time-and-one-time-only exception, but he knows that was not the real reason - and Stevie probably knows as well. “How do you know he stayed the night, though?” 

Stevie deadpans. “You obviously had sex this morning.” 

“Jesus.” The Irishman frowns. “Seriously, you’re starting to scare me.” 

“Finns, listen to me, yeah?” Stevie leans over his desk, capturing his eyes with a fixed gaze. “If you feed the bear, it is going to keep coming back. It might seem cute and docile at first, but then one day, when you decide you don’t want to feed it anymore, the bear will fucking eat you.” 

Steve regards his friend quietly for a moment. “… what?” 

“ _Don’t let the stalker think you like being stalked!_ ” 

“I don’t like being stalked, I just wanted to have a fuck.” 

“You wanted to have a fuck with a fucking stalker!” 

“Yes, Stevie! With the bloody stalker!” Steve lifts his arms and lets them fall heavily beside his body, over the chair’s arms. “Jesus Christ. I don’t know who’s worse: him, stalking me, or you, getting on my fucking nerves.” 

“Well, clearly, somebody has to, ‘cause you can’t think clearly by yourself.” 

“What is so fucking bad about it?” 

“ _What is so fucking bad about it_?” comes the derisive rejoinder. 

Steve takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know why in God’s name he’s supposed to explain his actions to Stevie, but it’s been like that for years and he’s not about to start a revolution. Not in the morning, when he’s meant to be in a good mood, after a good fuck, and especially not before his coffee.

“I work like a motherfucker, I don’t have a lot of time to go out and get myself laid with a new guy every night. But I'm an adult and I need sex. You probably don’t understand that need, because you have sex sleeping right next to you. I don’t. Sometimes I go for weeks without it. Do you have any idea how painful that is? So forgive me for thinking that maybe, just maybe, having someone who is willing to come round when I feel like it, like a booty call, is not such a bad thing. Besides, if I establish some ground rules and let him show up on previously scheduled dates, then he won’t have to stalk me anymore. You see? It’s a win-win situation.” 

Stevie looks guilty for a whole of two seconds. “The first ground rule of a stalker is that _there are no ground rules_.” 

“He’s harmless, Stevie. He doesn’t want to murder me in my sleep and steal my kidneys, for God’s sake.” 

“You can’t possibly already trust a guy who was stalking you until yesterday,” Stevie says in a tune of utter disbelief, almost like that would be, somehow, a personal offense. 

“Who said anything about trust? If he wanted to kill me, I think you would’ve heard about it already. There were plenty of opportunities.” 

“Finns. Honestly.” He shakes his head reprovingly. “You are excusing the guy for being a creep.” 

“It’s not an excuse, I just said he’s weird and persistent, not dangerous. There’s a difference.” 

“Doesn’t matter if he’s not dangerous, he’s a freak, you shouldn’t do him anyway.” 

Finns crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, why not? What if I’m into freaks? What if freaks turn me on?” 

“I’d say you are a fucking weirdo and I’m not sure I want to be your friend anymore.” 

“Really?” Steve asks, disbelievingly. 

“I don’t want freaks and weirdoes around my kids.” 

“What fucking kids, Stevie?” 

“I could have kids.” 

“But you don’t.” 

“But I could. Xabi and I have talked about it, maybe one day we’ll have kids. And I have to think about their future.” 

“For fuck’s sake…” 

“Do you think I want a guy who does kids around my kids?” 

“Stop talking about stupid imaginary kids!” Steve protests, real heat in his voice now. “And who the fuck is doing a kid?” 

“You are! That punk is fucking 17!” 

“He’s _twenty one_. Perfectly legal.” 

“It’s almost the same! He’s a fucking kid.” 

“He’s not a kid, he’s just enthusiastic.” 

“No, he’s just a fucking nightmare.” 

“How, in God’s name, do you even know that? You saw him _once_ , for five seconds.” 

“It was enough. What kind of respectable person goes home with a guy who wears a Mohawk?” 

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but shuts it back up again and thinks for a moment longer. “… I’m not huge on the Mohawk either,” he admits. Daniel’s a fairly attractive man, and Steve can appreciate the tattoos, even though they’re not his thing. But the Mohawk would definitely go, if it depended on him. It makes Daniel look too juvenile, and not in a good way. Just in a way that reminds Steve of his rebel 14 years old, which kind of reinforces Stevie’s argument that he’s a kid. “I kind of told him I’d like it better if he didn’t have it anymore.” 

Steve looks genuinely appalled. “Oh, so you’re already giving him opinion on his haircut?” 

Finns rolls his eyes again, annoyed. “It was just a comment…” 

“What if he shows up next without the Mohawk just to please you?” 

“Good.” The Irishman shrugs. “He’d look good.” 

“That, my friend, is the first step of a relationship.” 

Steve frowns deeply. “What relationship? What the fuck are you - Seriously, I think my brain just melted. I think you were protesting about me sleeping with someone with a Mohawk, but I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re on about anymore. Kids, relationship… What did you take this morning?” 

Stevie shakes his head again, and Finns suddenly remembers the looks his mother used to give him when he was seven and decided that drawing on the walls was a fun activity. “I can tell where this is going.” 

“So aside from a pain in my arse, you’re also psychic now?” 

“I don’t have to be psychic. I just know. I know you. You were late this morning, but you’re never late. And you’re glowing - which means you like that kid.” 

“It means the sex was good, Steven, stop reading too deep into things. There’s nothing else to it.” 

“That’s what you always say. _‘It’s just sex, Stevie.’ ‘I’m not interested, Stevie’_ \- and then you are.” 

Finns’ mouth drops in shock. “When have I ever done that?!” 

“Well, there was me.” 

He lets out an indignant, hard laugh. “So because it happened _once_ , a million fucking years ago, it’s suddenly a pattern? I haven’t had a relationship since we broke up, Stevie, that’s how fucking interested I am.” 

“Finns, if you go to a bar, _any_ bar, doesn’t even have to be a gay bar, and snap your fingers, there will be a line of guys just begging for a shot with you. You don’t have to bed the stalking teenager. _Unless_ you’re interested in something else with the stalking teenager.” 

“Right, so I take it that your problem is with Daniel in particular, not with having a one-night stand that might - and I’m not at all saying that it will - turn into something else?” 

“ _Daniel_?” Stevie makes a funny face. “Are we on first name basis with the punk now?” 

“Dear God…” The Irishman buries his face in his hands and rubs his temples with the tip of his fingers. Stevie is a very lucky man Finns has a lot of self-control, or he would’ve been kicked out of his office by now, with a hard boot on his fucking ass. 

“I don’t like him, Finns.” 

“No shit!” He flattens his palms against the desk with a thud. “That’s the fucking problem with you, isn’t it? You never like anyone I go out with. Every time I get myself a date it’s the same story. _I don’t like his beard, Finns. I don’t like his Mohawk, Finns. His teeth are too yellow, his trousers are too tight, he has small hands, his fucking aura is black._ There’s always something that doesn’t meet your criteria. You're not the one who's picking a fuck, and yet you schedule yourself an appointment with me to make your stupid lists on why I shouldn’t be dating that person. And I’m not even dating this time! Unless you have a missing twin brother out there, I don’t think you’ll ever like anyone I sleep with.” 

“I just want you to be with someone who’s good enough for you.” 

“Then, please, by all means, tell me who’s good enough for me. I’ll write it down and remember to check the next time. _‘I’m sorry, before I fuck you, there are a few questions I need to ask to make sure you qualify as good enough for me according to my best friend’s standards’_.” 

“I’ll tell you who’s not. A twenty years old with a stupid Mohawk, stupid tattoos, stupid attitude and who sits on his arse all day stuffing his face with drugs.” 

“How do you even fucking know he does drugs?” 

“Look at him! He’s 21, he goes to Mercy! Of course he’s doing fucking drugs. Everyone else there is.” 

“I can’t blame him for being young. I was 21 once.” 

“But you’re not anymore.” 

“So you’re saying I’m too old for him?” 

“No, I’m saying he’s not good enough for you.” 

“Look, Stevie, Daniel is a pain in my arse, much like you, but he’s good in bed -” 

“And I’m not?!” 

_Lord, give me patience..._ “That's irrelevant to me, because you’re taken. Daniel’s not. And he’s good in bed. And that’s all I need him to be right now. I don't know anything else about him, not even his full name, because I'm not interested. I didn’t even say that I will see him again. It’s just a possibility. _Maybe_. You should check that word up.” 

The Scouser snorts. “Of course you’ll be seeing him again. You let him in.” 

“Yes, and if I let him in again, it will be to get him undressed and fucked and then he’ll be out on his way again. What he does with his life outside my flat is not of my concern.” 

“Come on, Finns. You’re not like that. _You_ know that. _I_ know that. You _care_.” 

“Not about him!” he stresses again. “I don’t know how many times I have to repeat that I don’t want a relationship. It’s just sex. And I don’t have to explain myself to you either.” 

Stevie shrugs and looks away, almost hurt. “Fine. Whatever. Do what you want. But don’t come crying on to me when he breaks your heart.” 

“Break my…?! What the fuck are you even on about? You are such a drama queen! I spent two nights with the guy, what are the chances that he’ll break my heart? If anything, it’s more likely I’ll be breaking his.” 

“Yeah, well, spend two more nights with him and tell me that again.” 

Finns stops, inhales deeply and scrubs a hand over his face. “Steven, I love you,” he starts. “But if you say anything else about that, I am seriously going to get pissed. I had a fantastic shag last night, and a brilliant one this morning, and you’re kind of ruining it for me.” 

“Fine,” he shrugs. “I won’t. He’s your problem to deal with.” 

“Thank you.” 

“But when -” 

“Stevie,” Finns admonishes with a very pointed glare. 

Stevie sighs. “Fine.” 

“Good. Now, what was it about Abramovich that we had to discuss?” 

Stevie purses his lips thoughtfully for a moment. “You made me forget it.” 

“ _I_ didn’t do anything. That was the first thing I asked when I got here, you’re the one who went astray.” 

“Bollocks.” The Englishman stands up and moves to the door. “I need to go get my notes.” 

“Stevie?” 

“What?” he stops by the door and turns back. 

“Be a darling and get me a coffee, will you?” 

“If you wanted a coffee, you shouldn’t have been 30 minutes late.” 

“Twenty.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Is this a punishment?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you never gonna pester me about Daniel again?” 

“No.” Steve doesn’t believe it for a second, but he’ll pretend this is a pact just so he can throw it back at Stevie the next time he brings Daniel up again - and he most definitely will. 

“Then I’ll take it on the chin.” 

“Tell me about this again when I get to paragraph 35 of that lawsuit.” 

“What?!” 

“Take it on the chin, lover boy.” Stevie blows him a kiss and leaves. 

x-x-x 

Daniel’s thinking of all the things he wants to do with Steve with a filthy smirk dancing on his lips, as he rings the doorbell and waits outside his apartment. When the door opens, however, much to his astonishment, it is not the sexy brunette with amazing cheekbones he was expecting who stands there before him. Instead of Steve, he finds a man with a tiny, wrinkly forehead, a funny nose and a bored air about his face. The stranger casually takes a little popcorn from a bowl in his hands, throws it in his mouth, and asks, “Can I help you?” 

Daniel frowns, checks the flat number on the door again. It’s the right place. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m Steve’s boyfriend,” he says. “Who the fuck are you?” 

Daniel’s jaw drops. “What?!” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” comes Steve’s muffled voice from inside the flat. “Get the fuck out, Stevie.” 

The man - Stevie, he suspects - remains impassive, eating his popcorn and staring straight into Daniel’s eyes like he’s trying to read into his soul or something. 

Daniel pushes the door open and finds Steve sitting on his couch inside. “You have a boyfriend?!” he demands. 

“No,” the other man says, simply. 

“Then who are you?!” 

“I could be the boyfriend.” 

“What the fuck is going on here? Who is this guy?” he says, turning back to Steve. 

Steve takes a deep, weary breath and joins them by the door. He takes the bowl away from the guy’s hand and gives him a gentle push. “This guy is leaving. Get out.” 

The man doesn’t protest, but makes sure to stop shoulder to shoulder with Daniel. He points two fingers to his own eyes, and then to Daniel’s. “I’m watching you,” he says. With a loud grunt, Steve shoves him out and slams the door shut. 

“Honest to God, everyone's a kid around here,” he speaks under his breath, shaking his head as he turns around and walks to the kitchen. 

Daniel follows behind his heels. “Who the fuck was that?” 

“A friend,” he explains, leaving the popcorn bowl on the counter. 

“Just a friend?” 

“Yes.” 

“What was he doing here?” 

“He followed me home.” Steve opens his cellar fridge and takes a little moment picking a bottle, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. 

“He’s in love with you,” Daniel points out the only possible conclusion to that weirdo’s behavior. 

Steve chuckles, shakes his head like he finds the idea very amusing. “No, he isn’t.” 

“He is. He so clearly is,” Daniel insists. 

“He isn’t, Daniel,” the other man repeats, patiently, picking a bottle of some red wine Daniel’s sure is a lot more expensive than anything he’s ever drank in his life. He’s pretty sure the content of Steve’s wine fridge could pay his rent for the next three years. “That's just what he's like.”

“How do you know that?” 

“He has a boyfriend.” 

“So?” Daniel shrugs, not at all convinced. “He could have a boyfriend and be in love with you.” 

“He’s not.” Steve takes two glasses out. That first night, when Steve finally let him in after days and days of tireless persistency, feels like a long time ago. It’s been less than a month, really, but Daniel’s been back several times since. And Steve has poured him wine every single one of them. To the Dane, that’s a clear sign of how welcome he is. He’ll start to worry the day Steve doesn’t offer him a drink.

“How can you be so sure?” 

“He broke up with me to be with his boyfriend,” Steve says, finally looking up at him, but still sounding awfully bored. “I don’t think he would’ve done that if he was in love with me.” 

Daniel straightens his eyes at him. “So he’s your ex then?” 

“Yes.” 

“And your ex just follows you home like that?” It says a lot about the guy’s reaction, Daniel thinks. He doesn’t have many exes, as he hasn’t had many official boyfriends in his life. One or two, maybe, and never for too long. But in his short experience, exes aren’t usually the friendliest or easiest people to have around new lovers. 

“He’s a special kind of ex,” Steve explains, simply, and leaves it at that. 

Daniel’s not satisfied, but he figures his place as Steve’s lover is not well enough cemented for him to question the nature of his relationship with someone else. Daniel can be a brat when he wants to, but he’s not stupid; he worked really hard to convince this man that he could be worth keeping and he’s not about to let his conquest go to waste based on flimsy jealousy. 

Not yet, anyway. 

“I don’t like him,” he states, simply. 

“He doesn’t like you either, so. Here,” he offers Daniel one of the glasses and clinks his own against it in a short toast before taking a sip from his wine. 

“Thank you,” he says, grinning. 

Screw the Stevie lad and screw it that he doesn’t like him. He’s here, having good wine with Steve, probably about to have good sex as well. Who cares about what that nobody thinks? 

Finns licks his lips, made redder by the wine, and frowns a little at him. “You have a little…” He stretches out a hand and touches Daniel’s cheek, rubbing his thumb against it, just next to his ear. “What is this…Ink?” 

Daniel scratches his face and peels off a little blue from his skin. “Oh. Yeah. Probably. I was working.” 

Steve sits down on one of the kitchen stools. “Working with ink?” 

“I’m a painter.” 

“A painter?” The older man’s eyebrows shoot up in amusement. 

“Yes.” 

“What kind of painter?” 

Daniel shrugs. “The kind of painter who paints paintings.” 

“Like… art? On a canvas?” 

Daniel chuckles at his obvious disbelief. “On a canvas, but whether it’s art or not is subjective.” Steve looks down at his own glass. “You look surprised,” Daniel comments. 

“I didn’t think you would be a painter. I’m a little shocked, to be honest.” 

The corner of Dan’s lip curve up into a grin. “What did you think I would be?” 

“Honestly?” Dan nods. Steve smiles sheepishly. “Nothing.” 

The Dane lets out a quick bark of laughter. “That’s very flattering, thank you!” 

“Just being honest.” 

“I’m actually a student,” he explains. “But I support myself by selling paintings.” 

The Irishman’s eyes widen in something near shock now. “Wow.” 

“What?” 

“That’s not at all something I would’ve expected.” 

“I don’t think you take me seriously, Steve.” Daniel makes a mock-hurt expression and Steve gives him a look that says ‘Yeah, well’. But the Dane’s not too bothered; not even he gives himself much credit. Shifting a little on his spot, Daniel takes a large gulp of his wine and narrows his eyes mischievously at the other man. “I’m gonna make you regret that,” he says, lewdly. 

Steve has a calm smile gracing his lips. He’s warming up, Daniel thinks. It’s just sex, just a few hours every other night, with the occasional staying over when they feel like taking their time or when Dan’s too exhausted to go home. The closest to a date they ever made was the one time Steve ordered them dinner and they ate it naked, in bed - which, Daniel noted, is now his favorite kind of date. But even though Steve makes sure to remind him that their thing is merely casual, he’s getting more and more open, visibly more comfortable, relaxing in Daniel’s presence. 

“I’d like to see you try,” he says. “Wanna start in the shower? You look like you could use one.” 

“Absolutely.” 

It only takes five seconds for Daniel to down the rest of the wine and rush to the shower. Steve always takes his time; Daniel doesn’t have that sort of patience. Probably something to do with the ten years gap between the two of them. Steve is composed while Daniel’s restless and thirsty. 

When Steve shows up in the bathroom, Daniel is already stepping out of his underwear. 

“You’re too hasty, Daniel,” Steve comments, pulling his shirt out of his trousers and starting to unbutton it. “Stripping can be really sexy, you know.” 

“Being naked is a lot sexier,” Daniel points out, stepping into the shower and turning it on. He closes his eyes under the spray of hot water, letting it cascade over his shoulders. He absolutely loves Steve’s shower.

“You leave nothing to the imagination like this.” 

“What is there to imagine? I’ve seen everything already.” 

Steve stops for a moment and glances at him, quizzically. “How old are you again?” 

“Twenty one.” 

“Oh,” Steve says, and finishes taking off his clothes. “I’m sure one day you’ll get it.” 

“Will you just get in here?” 

Steve laughs, but obliges. Daniel makes room for him under the water, not wasting time before wrapping his arms around the shorter man’s waist. The Irishman rubs his own hair and tilts his head back a little, inviting Dan to kiss his neck, which is exactly what he does. The Dane bites and kisses his skin, tasting Steve. This is the kind of thing he likes to savor - the feeling of another person in his arms, the salty flavor of someone else’s skin. It sends a tingly sensation up his spine, makes his cock stir as he presses up his crotch against the other man’s. 

Steve pulls his chin up and takes Daniel's mouth on his into a slow, lascivious kiss. He slides one hand down Dan’s torso and wraps his fingers around the Dane’s cock, stroking it languidly. Daniel breathes heavily against his mouth, making a throaty sound. 

They stay like this for a while, but not long; soon, Daniel, always the avid one, can’t take the lazy foreplay anymore and drops to his knees, grabbing Steve’s fine, thick thighs - he used to play football in college, he said; it certainly did wonders for his legs - and placing little kisses on his underbelly. 

Steve laughs, caressing Dan’s head and pulling at the slightly longer strands of his Mohawk. 

“I don’t even have to tell you to get down anymore," he says, amusedly. "You can’t resist having a cock in front of you and not having your mouth around it, can you?” 

“I can, but I don’t want to.” He kisses the head, feels as a soft shudder goes through the other man’s body. 

“Freud would have a few things to say about you.” 

“I think Freud was just a big,” a kiss, “closeted,” another kiss, “queer,” and a lick. Finns moans; Daniel grins, looking up at the man. “Who loved to have a fat dick in his mouth,” he concludes. 

Steve’s eyes are glowing with want, the water cascading around his head and dripping all over Daniel. He’s beautiful like this, Dan thinks, once he’s stripped of his well-kept façade and the sharp, straight lines of his suit. Steve’s a different person between four walls. You’d never guess that such a cool, centered man could turn into such a slutty devil under the right kind of influence. His contradiction speaks to Daniel in a way he can’t really understand. 

“You’re not the first to say that,” Steve says, holding Dan’s chin and bending over to place a quick kiss on his lips. He stands straight again and caresses his mouth with the tip of his fingers, which Daniel kisses, gently, one finger at a time. 

“Here’s what I’m gonna do,” the Dane announces. “I’m gonna give you head until you’re almost over the edge and I get rock-hard, and then I’m gonna shove into you ‘till you can’t remember your own name.” 

Steve smirks. “Bossy, are you?” 

“I take it you like that.” 

“You assume correctly.” Steve places both hands on Dan’s head again, massaging his scalp. “You can also stop talking now, by the way.” 

He beams at the other man before closing his lips tightly around his dick. “Gladly, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say the story, obviously, still hasn't been beta'ed. So apologies for all my mistakes!


	10. I'm giving it my all but I'm not the boy you're taking home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than all the previous onces 'cause I decided to put two chapters together. I hope it makes sense. Like I said before, next update will be the second part of the backstory, and then we go back to the regular timeline.
> 
> I really apologize for all the mistakes you will certainly find! Story is un-beta'ed. :( Feedback is always appreciated! Hope you enjoy your reading. :)

It is Stevie, Xabi and Finns settled in a booth fairly enough away from the - very busy, as per usual - dance floor. It was Finns’ idea that they found a place to hang out without hordes of dancing queens surrounding them, but he’s already starting to regret it. He hadn't been out with the two of them - _just_ the two of them - in such a long time he'd forgotten what they're like.

“What did I say about not making out in front of me?” Finns wastes another perfectly good olive from his martini by throwing it at the happy couple - aiming for Stevie, preferably, but he's ok with hitting Xabi just as well. Finns is not even hiding how surly he is. As a matter of fact, the only reason he's here to begin with is precisely _because_ he's surly. They should respect his right to bitterness and concentrate on improving his mood, not on sucking each other's tongues. Like watching two people who can't get their hands away from one another for five seconds is going to do Finns any good, considering his circumstances. 

Xabi laughs; Stevie throws the olive back at him with a frown. “It was just a little kiss, Finns. Jesus.”

“That’s the third olive I’ve thrown at you tonight, arsehole. I could see your tongue all the way down Xabi’s throat. No kissing, no funny touching. Those are the rules. If you don't respect it, I'm gonna have to sit between the two of you.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to any of that.”

“You agreed to it when you invited me here. If you two wanted to snog, you shouldn’t have asked me to come along. I’m a sexually frustrated person, so deal with it.”

With a very pointed eye roll, Stevie removes his arm from around Xabi’s shoulder and moves a little to the side. 

The thing is, every time Finns hits him with an olive, Stevie pretends to listen and moves away from his husband, only to go back to doing the exact same thing a few minutes later. It's like his limbs start moving out of their own volition towards Xabi. They don't even notice what they're doing until things are being thrown at them. In any given circumstance, being the third wheel is uncomfortable. But when you're experiencing a particularly rough patch in your own relationship, it's also very frustrating. It just keeps reminding Finns of why he's here, being grumpy and a cock-block, instead of at home, with his own boyfriend.

As though hearing his silent cry for help, Sergio pops out of nowhere and slides into the booth next to Finns, who breathes out in relief for the arrival of another company to rescue him from drowning in the sexual tension emanating from the other side of the table.

“Hello there, beautiful people!” Sergio greets them with a smile almost as bright as the color of his clothes. It is a mystery to Finns how that man somehow manages to still look ridiculously hot while wearing arguably the most tasteless clothes in the world. Sergio is probably the only person in the world, certainly the only one in Liverpool, who can pull off white destroyed skinny jeans and fluorescent yellow V-necks. That is some talent, indeed. 

The Spaniard wraps an arm around Finns and places an affectionate kiss on his cheek. “Didn’t know you were coming along, Finnsito! Been a while!”

“I shouldn’t have."

"Why not? You're always welcome here."

"Not to those two, I'm not," he says, nodding towards Stevie, who's already shaking his head and mouthing 'drama queen' at his friend. "Thank God you’re here, Ramos.”

“Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, but is there a special reason?"

“They won’t stop sucking face,” Finns denounces, whining like a kid and glaring at the couple sitting across from him.

“Stephen is highly exaggerating. It was just an ordinary kiss,” Stevie retorts, nonchalantly.

“You two are known for causing discomfort with your strong make-out sessions, so I’ll have to side up with Finns on that one.”

Stevie opens his mouth to protest, but it’s Xabi who says, “You’re all so jealous,” and then shrugs.

“Not the point,” Finns adds. 

“Shouldn’t you be spinning now, Sergio?” Xabi asks, changing the subject. “I thought you invited us over to appreciate your art?”

“Since when is owning an iPod considered art?” Stevie snorts.

Xabi pokes his husband's ribs and says, “Don’t mind him, Sergio.”

“Oh, I don't. I know exactly where that bitterness comes from," Sergio replies, grinning. "You’ll never get over the fact I used to do your husband, will you?”

Stevie bloats like a blowfish while Xabi laughs. The Scouser's possessiveness is not restricted to Finns, of course. He’s learned how to tolerate Sergio over the years, but Finns reckons he’ll never really accept that he is not the only one in the vicinity who knows what Xabi looks like underneath all those well-tailored suits.

“Anyway,” Sergio moves on before Stevie can stretch the argument any longer. “I need some time to enjoy the party, don’t I? My assistant is taking care of things for me.”

“You need an assistant? To _spin_?” Stevie asks.

“What, did you think only lawyers had assistants? Of course I do. He’s my apprentice. I’m teaching him everything I know.”

“That can’t be a very long internship, then.”

The Sevillian merely flips the Englishman off and continues. “His name is Marcelo, tiny Brazilian with a crazy hair. High all the time. But he’s actually pretty talented.”

“How many times have you fucked him in the DJ booth already?” Finns smirks.

“Would you believe me if I said none? He’s 100% straight.”

“What?” they all exclaim, almost at the same time, with varying degrees of bewilderment - Stevie edges on indignation, Xabi seems to find it rather amusing, while Finns is somewhere in-between.

Sergio nods very solemnly. “I know. I didn’t believe it either when he told me. I thought he was just one of those confused kids, still afraid to come out. But I’ve seen all sorts of guys hitting on him, and he just laughs them all off. He thinks it’s funny to have men coming on to him.”

“That’s so very straight,” Xabi says.

“Right? I don’t think he was lying.”

“What is a straight guy doing spinning in a gay club?”

“I have no idea, but he certainly seems to enjoy himself, so I’m not going to complain.”

“That must be really frustrating to you,” Finns says. “Having someone there with you, all the time, not being able to reach out and -”

“Actually, it turned out to be quite a blessing,” Sergio cuts him off around a dramatic sigh.

“Why?”

“I have a stalker who won’t leave me the fuck alone. I think I would’ve been jumped already if it wasn’t for Marcelo.”

“Finns can tell you a few unpleasant things about stalkers, can’t you, Finns? It doesn't end very well.” Stevie comments, provokingly. 

"Steven, don't even start," Finns admonishes with a glower before turning back to Sergio. “You mean there’s someone trying to fuck you that you don’t want?”

“Something like that.”

“That has to be a first.”

“You haven’t seen Martin around, by the way, have you?” Sergio cranes his neck to look around, searching for any sign of a shiny Slovakian head.

“Wait - Martin? Martin is your stalker?” Stevie asks. “Daniel’s Martin?”

“I don’t know what to do with him anymore!" Sergio exhales in frustration. "I’m used to being cornered, but that guy freaks me out. It’s like he literally wants to eat me, or nail me to a wall or something. And I don't even know where that came from. He never even so much as said hello to me before and now, all of a sudden, he's obsessed.”

“Frankly, I’m more shocked to find out you haven’t done him already,” Finns muses. 

“What do you people think I am? I haven’t fucked _every_ guy in this club. I’m a professional.”

“Maybe not you, but I certainly thought Martin did, which would include you,” Finns explains. "Thinking logically, you should've topped his list."

“Yeah, well, no. He’s not my type.”

“You have a type?” Xabi questions, faking astonishment.

“I’m really glad you asked, Alonso,” Sergio says, breaking into one of his typically larger-than-life smiles. “My type tends to vary from time to time. It used to be cocky, posh and ginger, but right now it would be tall, blond and freckled. You wouldn’t know anyone who matches this description, would you?”

The moment Sergio brings Xabi’s writer into the conversation, a dark cloud seems to materialize above his head. His expression turns into one that clearly says ‘back off’. Finns frowns and exchanges a weird look with Stevie, who shrugs. 

“I don’t think so,” Xabi replies, curtly.

“Come on, Xabi! Are you still holding on to that bullshit about not letting me near him? The guy’s over age, Jesus Christ. We’re not at you -”

“Sergio! Drop it. We’re not talking about Fernando tonight.”

“Why are you being such a cock-block?” Finns asks. “I don’t get what’s so special about that kid. It’s like he’s made of sugar.”

Xabi turns to him but only holds his gaze for a second, immediately looking down at his own hands and shifting uncomfortably next to his husband. “Can we not talk about this?”

Sergio rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Xabi.” He turns to Finns. “Where’s your man, anyway?”

“Well, let me check…” Finns checks his front pockets, then his trousers' pockets, and finally shrugs. “Not here.”

“You didn’t come with Daniel?”

“That seems to be the theme of my life lately.” Stevie tries to hold back his laughter but fails miserably. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.”

“Was I supposed to understand that or is it one of your stupid in-jokes?” Sergio asks, glancing from one to the other.

“Oh, it’s definitely not a joke.” Stevie says. “It’s very sad.”

Sergio cocks Finns an eyebrow; he just shakes his head. “Don’t ask.”

“Who’s your date then?”

Steve motions his arm forward, showing Stevie and Xabi with an overly-flowy move of his wrist. “You are looking at them.”

“Oh, fuck, Finns!” Sergio slaps his arm, reprovingly. “Tell me you didn’t come with the couple!”

“Ok, I won’t.”

“Finns!”

“We’re offended. Aren’t we, babe?” Stevie pokes Xabi on the side, but he barely moves, just continues to watch the banter with a distant air about him. “What’s wrong with being here with the couple? We’re a cool couple!”

“What is _not_ wrong, you mean,” Sergio snorts. “It’s pathetic! You never go anywhere with a couple unless you’ve got a side-kick yourself.”

“I feel much better now, Sergio. Thank you very much,” Finns says.

“Come on.” The Spaniard jumps to his feet and pulls Finns out of the booth with him. “Not gonna let you do this to yourself. Dance with me.”

“Gladly!” he says. “Gonna need a few drinks first, though. I haven’t danced in a while.”

Sergio puts an arm around his waist and gives him another kiss on the cheek. “How about a couple of tequilas to get you started?”

“How about a dozen?”

Sergio laughs and leads the way to the bar. “I love how you think, Finnan!”

x-x-x

Stevie watches the two of them talking lively as they walk away until they disappear from sight in the middle of the crowd. He’s not one of Sergio’s biggest fans, but if anyone can show Finns a good time, that’s the Sevillian. They’ll drink and then dance ‘till they drop dead. Usually, Stevie wouldn't recommend a night with Sergio Ramos to anyone, especially not to Finns, but if the two of them have enough tequilas and decide to take it further, he won't even mind. With a little bit of luck, his friend’s mood will be slightly improved the next day at the office. Finns definitely needs to get laid. And if God's good, it won't be Daniel to help him out with that.

One problem solved, now on to the next.

“Hey,” he murmurs, scooching over to Xabi and pulling him back into a half embrace, now that there's no one to throw olives at them anymore. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve gone all quiet.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you really just worried about Sergio’s obsession with your new kid?”

Xabi is silent for a moment. “No,” he admits. “But I don’t want to talk about that.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Should I be worried?”

Xabi falters. “No.”

“Ok, then.” Stevie gives him a kiss on the neck. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t insist.”

“Thank you.”

“But now that Finns is taken care of, you’re gonna have to get rid of that pout and dance with me.”

A tiny little smile finally begins to break onto his face. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Stevie pulls Xabi’s chin towards him with his fingers and gives him a kiss - one they can finally get to finish in peace. When they pull away, his husband seems a little bit more at ease. It’s not ideal, Stevie thinks, but it’s good enough. They can work this tension out on the dance floor and later, when they’re back home, tucked in and preferably naked under the covers, Xabi might be more willing to talk. “All right, then, Alonso. Let’s show them how it’s done!”

x-x-x

It’s a little past ten when Fernando texts to let him know he’ll be running late. Daniel duels for about fifteen minutes over whether he should go home and get something more appropriate to wear or not. It’s a date, after all, he’s supposed to be wearing something nice, although he hardly thinks impressing with looks is still a requirement at this stage of things. Besides, he’s an artist; artists can always blame their lack of taste in clothing on their superior creative minds.

But the truth is that he really does want to go home, have a proper shower and change into clean clothes. The only problem is that going home means facing Steve. Guilt has been piling up rapidly in the last few days and if he runs into Steve before going out to see Fernando, he’s just not going to make it. The reason why he’s been avoiding his boyfriend so diligently is because he’s not nearly as strong as a motherfucker of his caliber should be. He can’t take lying to Steve like this. He’s just going to spill the beans and then there will be a lot of yelling (Steve) and a lot of crying (Daniel) and it will change everything.

Just the thought of it makes his stomach churn away manically, like there are little hamsters racing one another in his belly. He can delay it all he wants (well, not really all he wants; all Xabi allows him to is more accurate), but the yelling and the crying are bound to happen at some point. The longer he waits, the worse it will be, but he’s aware that it’s too late to be thinking of damage control now. The end result will be the same either way: Steve will hate him and he will feel like shit.

In times like this Daniel thinks he’d take the chance to trade half his artistic prowess for a little bit more of academic brightness in a blink. Being a dumbfuck has caused him enough problems for one lifetime and he’s not even 26 yet. Perhaps then he’d be able to figure things out more easily, understand his own sodden thinking and just see the way out of this mess. Steve has always been the smarter half of their relationship. Everything is always so logical and easy with him it's hard to even counter his arguments, which just makes fighting him nearly impossible for someone as messed up as Daniel. Many things about Steve have rubbed off on him during the four years they’ve been together, but apparently brain isn’t something you can pass on to other people. 

After a pause for a little inner battle, Daniel decides to call home. The least he can do is let Steve know - for the hundredth time this week - that he’ll be spending the night at the studio. While he prepares to have the phone hung up on his face, much to his surprise, he’s greeted by the machine. Daniel tries again to make sure Steve it not asleep or in the shower, and when after the fourth attempt it is still the machine answering the call, Dan decides to try his luck and go home.

Indeed, his boyfriend is not there. Which is strange, if he stops to think about it, because he’s always home at this hour during the week. Except when he’s with Gerrard. They’re probably out having a drink and discussing all the seven hundred ways in which Dan has been a disgrace to Steve’s life. That doesn’t appease the riot in his chest, considering the things Gerrard might have heard from Xabi. Steve could be hearing everything about Fernando right this second while Daniel gets ready to go out like his life isn't falling apart all around him. One could say he's the stupidest man in the world, which wouldn't be totally wrong, but he prefers to think he's trying to make the most out of the little rest of peace he still has before the bomb goes off. And in any case, there isn’t really anything he can do about Gerrard spilling the beans to Steve. Not like he’s got a strong case to argue against any of it anyway.

He takes a quick shower, picks something nice to wear and spends a whole minute looking at his own reflection in the mirror, wondering just how much of an asshole he is for feeling glad he was able to use his boyfriend’s luxury apartment to get proper ready for a date with someone else. On a scale of jerkiness, from one to ten, he’s probably reaching eleven right about now. Daniel thinks that maybe one day, perhaps not in the next few weeks, but certainly in the conceivable future, someone will be able to refer to him without using the word ‘ass’ somewhere in the sentence. That day is not here yet.

He meets Fernando close to the Spaniard’s flat. It’s weird and wonderful at the same time. 

Weird because tonight feels too much like a test. It is _it_. Make it or break it. Tonight is all the time he’ll give himself to figure out what this feeling he’s got at the pit of his stomach and the drumming in his chest really mean. He'll either be definitely in love with Fernando now, or never.

“Hey,” Fernando says, greeting him with a smile so big that it barely fits on his face. That’s when it all feels wonderful. All of Daniel’s uncertainties die on the corner of Fernando’s lips, melt away on the little crinkles around his chocolate eyes. For one second, it’s like it all makes sense. Only he can’t quite figure out how or why. 

“Hi,” he replies, and offers his cheek for Fernando to kiss, chastely.

“Shall we?” Fernando asks, and they start walking, side by side. “I don’t know, I just woke up today in a real mood for music and dancing. I spent the whole day with my headphones on and I wrote an entire chapter of my book. It’s why I got late, by the way, had to wrap it up. This is such a good day!”

Daniel forces his lips to remain pleasantly amused, making sure that the smile reaches his eyes. Right now, it’s all grey, smudged lines where there should be a crisp, sharp picture. But he reckons if he really wants to have an answer by the end of the night, then perhaps the way his heart pounds when Fernando’s fingers brush against his, lingering just long enough for him to know it is on purpose, is probably a good start.

x-x-x

Sergio is torn between being concerned and impressed as Finns knocks back several shots of tequila in quick succession. Steve Finnan is the kind of guy who would trade twenty body shots for a good glass of wine, the same breed as Xabi (which Sergio thinks explains a lot about Stevie). It’s not every day that you get to see him stuffing his face with non-bourgeois alcohol like this. There’s a part of Sergio very much amused, but the other, more responsible side of him thinks it is hardly a good indication.

Sergio doesn’t really remember ever seeing Finns drinking like this. He’s seen him drunk, but right now he’s more like a man on a mission, and his mission is to leave this bar straight to a liver transplant waiting list.

“Don’t you think you should go a little slower?” he asks, tentatively, when Finns waves to the barman and demands another round. He wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted a dozen shots of tequila.

“I’m not drunk yet.”

“Give it a minute and you sure as hell will be.”

“Why are you not drinking?” 

“I am,” Sergio waves a cocktail glass in front of his face, still his first and still half full. He's been do drawn to Finns' determination in breaking the world record for most tequilas knocked back in a minute that he forgot to finish his own drink.

“That’s kid stuff, Ramos.” The barman brings in another shot, but gives Sergio a pointed look that says ‘Watch him’. Sergio merely shrugs. He’s not Finns’ mother. Or his Stevie, for that matter.

The Irishman knocks it back with the same purpose as the four or five or six before. “I can’t feel my throat anymore,” he confesses, sticking out his tongue and shaking his head a little.

“So I take it that thing with Daniel is pretty bad,” Sergio comments, sipping from his glass.

Finns grumbles a response and, upon realizing it didn't make any sense, says, “I’ve had a bad week in my head. That’s all”. 

“… Are you sure?”

Finns turns back to him, leaning against the counter. He seems… Purposeful. “I didn’t come here tonight to talk about Daniel. If I wanted to talk about Daniel, I would've stayed at home and talked _to_ Daniel about him. Can we not talk about Daniel?”

Sergio smiles, albeit a little dull. “You only have to ask once.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think you’ve had enough?”

“Probably not. But I’m ready to dance if you are.”

“Ah. The magic word!” Sergio offers him a hand to take, leaving his own glass on the counter. “Shall we?”

Finns wraps his hand clumsily around Sergio’s (and Sergio can tell by the way he’s holding him that the tequilas are already starting to kick in) and the Spaniard leads him to the busy dance floor, making way amongst the people crammed together there until they find a good enough spot. The music is pumping loud - Marcelo knows how to set the vibe for the queens; it’s definitely completely accidental that he turned out straight - and the heat is tremendous. Finns closes his eyes, hangs his head back and starts moving to the beat, just letting his body take him. Sergio smiles at the pleased expression he has on his face. It’s a little more than pleased, actually; it’s almost sensual. The man is feeling the song more than merely listening to it. His lips are parted just that tiny bit, his cheeks are burning pink and Sergio can see the sweat rolling down his neck. 

So it turns out that dancing with someone who looks this good but that you can’t touch is kind of a torture, Sergio realizes. He should’ve thought this through.

Sergio’s own body is moving out of its own accord, just following the music without much purpose as he can’t stop staring, can’t unfix his eyes from Finn’s collarbone and unthink how incredible it would be to get his mouth right there, under his adam's apple. 

It’s not that Sergio’s some kind of maniac, but come on... This is not at all a good setup. If he doesn’t find something else to focus on, he’s soon gonna want to follow that sweat thread down Finns’ shirt and the lad is so drunk the possibility of this ending up well is probably negative. Sergio needs to find someone he can go and make out with as soon as Finns is done with his dancing. He’s not going to leave his friend to wallow in the presence of a loving couple while he’s clearly in denial about his own love life, but a man has his needs. And right now what Sergio needs is to start kissing something.

The Spaniard turns his face from side to side, searching around the dance floor, checking if he spots anyone in particular. Any old fling would do. In a perfect world, this would be his lucky day and he’d spot Fernando, looking just as sultry and lonely as Finns does right now, waiting for him to make a move. He’s seen Xabi’s friend here once, before they met at the party. It’s not just wishful thinking; he has been to Mercy. Only very unfortunately not since they met.

“Heeey,” Finns shouts in his face, wrapping his arms around Sergio’s neck and pulling him closer to speak. “I’m right here!”

Sergio smiles nervously. “Sorry," he manages, biting his lower lip and sucking air in through his teeth.

“You have to dance with me, Sergio!” the Irishman yells again, breathing hot against his neck. “Not leave me here while you check other people out! It makes me look stupid!”

 _Stupid is not exactly the word_ , the Spaniard thinks. “You were in a vibe,” he says instead, putting his hands on Finns’ waist, firmly (but not happily) keeping Finns from pressing their bodies too close together.

“Who are you looking for?” he asks, smirking. “Satan’s spawn?”

Sergio laughs. “No,” he replies, and takes another quick look around. “But now that you mentioned…” 

For the first time ever, Martin starts to sound like a good prospect. He’s willing, and, uhm… experienced. He obviously knows his way around certain needs. In the lack of something less frightening, the Slovakian could help unloading all the rapidly mounting sexual tension in his underbelly.

Sergio’s already considering the best way to approach Martin without running away scared when Finns grabs him and makes him swirl around the dance floor - and that’s when he sees him. That unmistakable blond head, standing out in the middle of the crowd, glistering under the lights. Sergio stops, stares for a moment, and then can’t quite contain the broad, open grin that spreads across his lips. How fucking lucky does a man need to be for something like this to happen? It’s like freaking Christmas!

“Holy fuck!” he exclaims, watching as Fernando moves around with his back turned to him. Sergio spent so much time checking out his ass at Xabi’s party he’d recognize him anywhere.

“What?!” 

“I found him!” he says. “Fernando, he’s here!”

“Really? Where?” Finns turns around to look. “Ah!” The Irishman pulls his shirt, and Sergio thinks he’s going to fall down, but then realizes he’s actually just excited. And very drunk as well. “Xabi’s gonna eat your kidneys, but you gotta go there!”

Sergio laughs. Fernando is dancing with someone. He sees a pair of hands snaking around his waist, latching onto the other man’s shirt and then sliding down to grab his ass. Fernando throws his head back, looks to be laughing.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “He’s got company already,” he shouts back at Finns, who’s dancing mindlessly next to him.

Fernando kisses the guy he’s dancing with - which immediately sends a pang of jealousy through Sergio - and then they turn together. Sergio is ready to go and steal the blond away from whomever it is he’s with - he knows that club like the back of his hand, he can take any of those bitches at any moment - but then he realizes he knows the person snogging his prey.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes widened in shock. It takes him a moment before he can move his gaze away from the bodies intertwined a couple of feet from him, glued together as they kiss like they’re the only people there. Like they’ve been doing this for ages. 

This is... something gone mad. Like when people use that expression to communicate the fact that something has gone completely out of control. ‘This is democracy gone mad!’ Well, this is it. Only he doesn’t know what ‘something’ really stands for here. The most fucked up thing anyone can think of. That’s what it is. Suddenly, it’s like a giant hole opens up under his feet, sucks him in and then spits him out somewhere else entirely, because snap and all that good vibe is gone. The excitement, the horniness, the heat... It's all extinguished faster than a fire under heavy rain.

When he looks back at Finns, the man has turned to stone beside him. He stopped moving completely, his hands are balled into fists and Sergio finds it astounding that Daniel - Jesus Christ, that Dane is the biggest fuck up he’s ever heard of - and Fernando - his Fernando! He saw him first, goddamn it! - continue to make out mindlessly, totally unaware of the holes Finns’ eyes are boring onto them.

For a moment there Sergio has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do. It’s like the entire dance floor has been suddenly cleared out and even the music ceased to play, and he finds himself standing between Daniel and Fernando sucking face in one corner, while Finns glares in sheer blazing ire from the other. He keeps looking from one side to the other, wondering whether he should run or stay or yell at someone for help or what. 

Sergio thinks maybe he should try to offer some comforting words to Finns, but the truth is he’s terrified of Finns right now. He hasn’t moved a muscle, hasn’t even fucking blinked. A minute ago he was all wobbly and relaxed, and suddenly he's all sober and hostile. If someone strikes a match somewhere near them, Finns is going to blow up. 

Sergio duels over what to do and decides to lay a hand on the small of his friend’s back, just to show that he is there. “Finns…” he starts, tentatively, leaning in closer so that he'll hear him. “I’m sorry.”

His touch seems to jumpstart the other man, somehow, as he immediately swirls around on his heels, grabbing Sergio’s wrist somewhere along the movement, and then marches away towards the opposite direction.

After being dragged across the dance floor by a persistently firm grip around his wrist, Sergio concludes that Steve Finnan is a human cannon ball. He bumps onto shoulders, steps over feet, throws Sergio against other people, but he never, ever stops. The sensation is close to being tied up and hauled around by a train with a very bad temper. 

Sergio tries to stall him, to pull him back, yells his name; Finns, obviously, doesn’t give a damn. He doesn't know if it's the booze or the anger, but the combination of both have turned that man into a demon. Sergio is left to get the glares and the eventual curses from the displeased people being pushed away to make room for Finns’ determination. And, between an ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Excuse me’ and ‘I’m _really_ sorry, he’s drunk’, he’s got no choice but to follow.

It's hard to tell what exactly is going through that man's head, but by the looks of it, Sergio thinks he's probably going to be used in some sort of vengeance plot. It’s happened before; someone gets pissed at their partners and then finds a rebound to even out the scores and get vindicated. In Sergio's experience, revenge sex tends to be terrific. Certainly top 3 in the best types of sex anyone could ever have. The real issue is that Sergio is only moderately ashamed of the fact that the idea of fucking Finns right now doesn’t seem completely insane to him, and common sense says he should feel a lot more aggravated. But he is kinda turned on, after all, and he is also kinda mad, because Daniel, who already has this hot piece at home, is now snogging _his_ hot piece. The fact Fernando doesn’t know - _yet_ \- that he’s supposed to be Sergio's is absolutely irrelevant. The whole point is that he is most definitely not supposed to be _Daniel’s_.

If Daniel were making out with the man he is meant to be making out with, none of this would be happening. He wouldn’t have had improper thoughts about Finns in the first place, and Fernando would be available, and everything would be right with the world. So the Dane only has himself to blame for if he is to, say, get home some time later tonight to find a beautifully tanned Spaniard splayed across his bed, next to his boyfriend.

Finns doesn’t let go of him until they’ve made it to the DJ booth, where Marcelo is happily enjoying the vibe, dancing with his eyes closed while the music pumps.

“Marcel!” Finns yells and leans over the booth to catch the substitute DJ’s attention. “Hey, Marcel!”

“It’s Marcel _o_!” Sergio corrects him. 

Marcelo snaps out of his trance and blinks confusedly at the two of them before opening his trademark broad grin. “Hey!” he nods at Finns. “Wazzup?”

Finns waves him over and pulls him close enough to talk on his ear. Marcelo chuckles, then nods, then laughs, then nods again, and then Finns points towards somewhere across the room. Sergio frowns. Marcelo laughs again, richly, looking at him this time.

“What?” he asks, getting closer to try and catch something. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Do you understand?” Finns asks, pulling away from Marcelo.

“Roger!” The Brazilian says, offering two thumbs up to Sergio. “You go, boss!”

The creases on the Spaniard’s brow deepen further. “What did you just -” Sergio is cut mid-sentence by Finns, who has begun to undo the buttons on his shirt until he can remove it through his head, leaving it with Marcelo. Sergio almost doesn’t want to ask, because if he says he’s not enjoying the view, that would be a lie. But he’s also very afraid of this weird half-naked version of Finns. “What the fuck are you doing?!” he shouts after a moment. Sergio’s mouth hangs open, although whether in shock or something else he doesn’t know. He hasn’t felt this apprehensive about a man undressing in front of him since his first time. Maybe not even then.

“Take off your shirt,” Finns commands.

“W-what?”

“Take it off!”

“What? No! Finns -” Before he has a chance to argue, Finns grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up, only letting go when Sergio finally complies and lifts his arms. 

Not like this is the first time he’s taken off his shirt in the middle of a club, but Sergio feels oddly self-conscious here. There are dozens of guys half-naked out there, but still. Finns is the only one with a really frightening driven look in his eyes.

“What the fuck are you on about, Finns?”

“You’ll see. Let’s go.” He grabs Sergio’s arm once more and gives one last look to Marcelo before pulling him along again. Sergio could’ve set himself free this time, but he’s split between curiosity and fear for what his friend might do to himself. Besides, if he just loses Finns in the club right now, so completely out of sorts and after witnessing what he just witnessed, Stevie is probably going to have his head on a stick. Instead of protesting again, Sergio writes a mental note to never feed anyone so much tequila ever again and takes a deep breath, allowing himself to be dragged once more.

This time, though, there are no curses or glares from the crowd; only whistles, general obscenities being mumbled and the occasional wandering hand. Finns is getting equally harassed, but it’s as though he can't even feel or hear anything. That man is seriously damaged. 

The Irishman takes them towards the Go-Go cage where Larissa, a 6’7” drag, is doing her thing. Finns lets go of his hand and jumps up to the cage, calling Larissa down. She bends over so she can hear what he is saying and gives Sergio a look that can only be described as _saucy_.

Finns is not really going to do what he thinks he’s going to do, is he?

Larissa nods at Finns, opens up her cage and gets down. Finns thanks her and climbs up.

_Holy. Fuck._

“Enjoy it, baby!” Larissa winks at Sergio and blows him a kiss as she walks by. He is momentarily paralyzed as he watches Finns waving him over from the cage. “Come on!”

“What?!” Sergio gets closer, glancing nervously around, where a small group has already taken attention to the man in the cage. “Have you lost your fucking mind, Finns? Get back down!”

“Just get up here!”

“No!”

Finns grunts. “Just get your fucking arse up here right now or I’ll find someone who will!”

Well, fuck. Sergio is not at all a shy person, but that doesn’t mean he wants to get up in a Go-Go cage and do whatever it is that Finns is thinking of doing. Never in his life has Sergio ever thought he’d be praying to God to make someone not want to have sex with him, especially a good looking man. He just wants to turn around and run away but his sixth sense tells him that if he lets a random stranger up there, things will get really messy, really fast. Finns is obviously not in his best senses - rage and tequila is hardly a good combination, and Sergio is partially responsible for at least one of those. It's best that he's the one doing damage control up there rather than a complete stranger who'll take all sorts of advantages of the situation.

With a loud, dejected sigh, he shakes his head and follows Finns inside. The moment he’s in, the Irishman locks the cage. It’s a much smaller space than it looks from the outside. He can’t see how two grown men are going to move around in there - or do anything, for that matter - and not touch. _A lot._ Sergio feels all the heat radiating from Finns, can almost sense his breath on his face. It's like he's got a burning aura. 

Sergio wonders whether punching Finns would be effective, both in terms of getting him out of there and of saving his growing irritation at this whole ridiculous situation. For all intents and purposes, he is shirtless, standing in a Go-Go cage, with a man who looks like he would murder puppies in cold blood right now. Not even Martin is as intimidating as this.

“Now listen up,” Finns starts, grabbing him by the waist and pulling Sergio flush against him. The Spaniard’s breath falters for a second, but Finns is still beautifully and drunkenly very much in control, which seems completely incoherent. But then nothing about this makes much sense anyway, does it? “I told Marcel to put the lights on us. As soon as he starts playing the music, you dance, ok?”

“Finns, look - this is crazy, ok? Everybody is looking at us.”

“I know. I want them to.”

“We’re half naked up here.”

“It’s just shirts, Sergio. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?! You undress me and then get me into a fucking Go-Go cage and now you’re - frankly, this?” Sergio motions his hand between the two of them. “Not very wise, amigo.”

“I just want you to fucking dance. Can you do that?”

“Look, just - calm down for a minute, all right? I know you’re angry, but this is a Go-Go cage, Finns. You don’t want to wake up tomorrow and -”

“Stop talking about what I want or not! Yes or no, Sergio?!”

“Yes!” he blurts out. “Fuck, Finns! Yes, fine! I’ll dance with you in this - cage, _Jesus Christ_.”

Finns smiles wolfishly and, as if on cue, Marcelo turns off the music and the spotlights are all turned towards them. 

“Yoooooooooo!” Marcelo’s voice thunders through the sound system. “Listen up, bitches! Everyone’s favorite DJ is going to perform especially for y’all tonight! This is a one off, people, so get ready to enjoooooooy! Give it up for Sergio and… his man! Sorry, you didn't tell me your name! Bring it down, boss!”

There are cheers and shouts and whistles, and then Finns snakes his arms around Sergio’s waist - he’s so close now Sergio can’t see anything but the blue in his eyes. “Ready?” The Spaniard half nods, half shrugs, and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what’s about to happen.

When the music starts playing - and Sergio’s so focused on the tiny, incredibly hot space inside the cage that he can’t even distinguish which song it is - Finns starts moving like there is no tomorrow. It’s as though he has the devil in his body, because fuck. Sergio doesn’t think he’s ever seen that man dancing like this. He’s known Finns for almost five years now and not even when he used to be younger and single did he ever - 

“Come on, Ramos!” he shouts, grabbing his arms and pulling them around his own body when Sergio stays rooted to the spot. At first he’s really stiff, like he can’t remember exactly how to move legs and arms coordinately - he can hear the people screaming and gathering around the cage, he can see hands flying about, trying to grab a piece of them. It’s all very distracting.

“Hey!” Finns holds his chin with one hand and forces him to meet his gaze - just as determined as before, except now he’s not cold; his eyes are fucking ablaze. “I’m right here! Eyes on me!”

 

x-x-x

 

“ _Oh. My. God_ ,” Xabi says, in awe, as he stares at the surreal dancing going on in the Go-Go cage.

“How the fuck did that happen?” Stevie mutters next to him, just as gobsmacked as his husband.

Neither of them is able to move their eyes away from the two men up in the cage. It’s hypnotizing, almost. Sergio and Finns, wearing nothing from the waist up, and getting all over each other in a space that was obviously not made to be occupied by two largely-built men.

The crowd is going crazy.

“What happened to their shirts?” Xabi asks, mindlessly, not even blinking.

“What happened to _Finns_?”

That is a very good question indeed, Xabi thinks, as his eyes widen in a mix of astonishment and amazement when Finns gets down and starts pulling on Sergio’s jeans while he snakes around his legs before slowly licking up his way through Sergio’s torso.

“Did he just -” Stevie stops mid-sentence.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Are they -”

“I think they are.”

Sergio seems to pick up on the pace and throws Finns back against the cage, burying his nose on the other man’s neck while grabbing his ass. Finns happily rolls his hips against Sergio’s thigh, stuck between his own legs.

Xabi swallows down hard.

“Should we -” Stevie tries and finds himself unable to finish yet another sentence.

“Fuck, no.”

“I can’t stop looking.”

“Me neither.”

“I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to be horrified or turned on. I think the second is winning.” He pauses. “Is that bad?”

Xabi searches for his hand - never looking away from the main spectacle - and intertwines their fingers together, giving his husband a tight squeeze. "Hell, no."

 

x-x-x

 

Daniel is completely distracted by the freckles on Fernando’s neck when the Spaniard lets out a throaty laugh. “Unbelievable!”

“Hmm?” he mumbles, not letting go or lifting his head. He noticed some kind of uproar going on, people screaming and someone saying something on the microphone, but it’s all very meaningless. Queens are always hysterical about shit. In fact, Daniel thinks he and Fernando should probably find somewhere to go now. The studio is probably not a good idea, though. He left a message for Steve saying he'd be staying there over night. It's not like Steve to just show up unannounced, but they should avoid it just in case his boyfriend decides to be spontaneous for a change.

“Oh my God! That’s Xabi’s friend!” Fernando laughs again, and then pulls on Dan's shirt. “You gotta see this, Dan! They’re in the cage!”

Daniel grunts, already bored, but pushes away from Fernando. “What?”

“Look!” The Spaniard points to the other side, where everyone around them seems to be looking at as well. “Sergio is in the Go-Go cage!”

"Sergio?" Daniel turns and finds that all the spotlights are turned to the cage where Ramos is getting it on with some other guy. The man is down on his knees in front of the Spaniard with his face buried on his crotch - but they’re still wearing jeans. There’s something faintly familiar about the guy, but Dan can't see his face and they're really far away. It's not at all strange to have people invading the Go-Go cage, but never in pairs. There's sex going on all around them, but not under the spotlight. That seems to be a limit that had remained uncrossed until now. Daniel certainly can't remember ever seeing Sergio up there. It seems more like the kind of thing Martin would do. In fact, Martin is probably going to go crazy when he sees the man he's been hunting down like a predator up in the cage with someone else.

“What are they doing up there?” he asks Fernando.

“I don’t know, but it looks hot. And it's that other friend of Xabi's. Do you know him?”

Daniel frowns. Sergio seems weird - almost like he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or like he’s afraid of doing something else, but he also has a very visible hard on, so he’s obviously enjoying whatever the hell is going on.

“Which friend?” Daniel asks as the guy makes his way up Sergio’s front using his tongue. “Well, that’s escalating pretty fast.”

“Finns.”

Daniel stops. 

"You... what?"

"Yeah, Finns. I met him at the party. He's super close with Stevie and Xabi. Don't you know him?"

Daniel is momentarily paralyzed. He doesn't whether he's more shocked at the fact Fernando has met Steve or that... Wait, did he just say that's _Steve_ up there?

The Dane keeps his eyes trained on the pair dancing, trying desperately to get a better glimpse of the man's face. He grows restless as he realizes why he seemed so familiar. He's hoping to every god in the universe that Fernando's mistaken and it's just someone who _looks_ like Steve, but, when the guy pulls a little away - right before Sergio throws him back against the cage and starts fucking him with their clothes still on - Daniel finally sees his face.

His heart stops beating for a full second.

Daniel can feel his jaw landing somewhere between his feet. His eyes widen with a kind of shock that he doubts he’s ever felt before. It’s like something dropped inside of him - his stomach, or his heart, or his lungs, or everything at once. 

_How did… Why is he - why are _they_ … When did… He… _Steve_._

It’s like he suddenly lost all ability to formulate a complete sentence or thought or anything at all. For a second there he even forgets how to breathe. There are one thousand and one things rushing through his head so fast he can’t really grab a hold of anything. For all he knows, he might have had a small stroke, because he can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even fucking blink.

Sergio Ramos is mock-fucking his boyfriend in a Go-Go cage. How in God’s name does something like that even happen? Even from a distance Daniel can see the sparkle in Steve’s eyes, the way he’s smirking and biting on his lip and how his hands are all over Sergio’s back while they… _Jesus_.

The two break away enough for them to change positions, and Steve is dancing like Dan’s never seen him dance before. It’s… hot. Really, really hot. Steve can be hot, Steve _is_ hot. But this is… Well, this is something else entirely. 

It suddenly occurs to him that the entire club is watching this. Everyone in there is getting turned on by the sight of Steve in a cage with a Spaniard with a fucking hard on. This is so fucked up in so many levels Daniel doesn't even know where to start getting indignant.

Steve is moving his hips now, hands on Sergio’s neck while they rub against each other in a movement that resembles many things, but dancing isn’t one of them. Daniel feels his heart pounding in his chest with a strange mixture of awe, lust and envy. He _knows_ that smirk, and those sparkly blue eyes, and those filthy lips so well - it's hard to process how in God's name Steve could've ended up in a go-go cage with someone else, which invariably makes him wonder how the fuck did they end up like this, in opposing sides of the same club, making out with different people, while still, technically, committed to each other.

Steve turns around and Sergio fits himself against his back, spooning the Irishman to bite on his neck while they move their hips in a perfect rhythm. The fact no one is penetrating no one is a mere detail; they’re having sex in there.

Daniel is going to throw up.

“Heey…” Fernando murmurs next to his ear, and Daniel flinches like a teenager who’s been busted doing something naughty.

He lets go of a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, feeling hot all over. “What?” he says, turning to Fernando, who’s grinning lavishly at him.

Fernando places a hand on the front of his jeans. It’s only then that he realizes he’s hard.

“Did you get inspired, babe?” Fernando asks, kissing his neck. 

Dan swallows down hard and looks back at the cage, where Steve is now getting chest-licked by Sergio. _Chest-fucking-licked, for Christ's sake _.__

__“I can take care of that,” Fernando continues, and Daniel feels his cock stirring inside his tight jeans._ _

__“Nuh… I… Uh… I don’t…”_ _

__“Shhh,” Fernando shuts him up with a kiss, then takes him by the hand. “Come on,” he says, pulling him aside. “Let’s go back to mine.”_ _

__Dan tries not to go. He really does. Fernando has to pull harder and insist, but he eventually gives in. To be honest, he’s got no fucking clue what he’s doing - he doesn’t even know what the hell is going on. All he knows is that the last thing he sees before the cage disappears from his sight is Steve and Sergio, kissing._ _

__x-x-x_ _

__Sergio only realizes that the song has ended when Finns pulls away from the kiss. The crowd is yelling and clapping wildly around them; the Irishman in front of him is grinning. Cheeks flushed and breath faltering, Finns lets go of him completely and says, “Thank you.”_ _

__Sergio blinks once. Then twice. Then again. And says, “You’re… welcome,” although he’s not really sure what for._ _

__He’s not even sure what the fuck they just did. Finns just started grabbing and grinding and shaking and Sergio is only mortal after all. You can’t really lock him up in a cage with a half-naked madman and expect him not to react. He did what any gay man in his place would do: he got horny._ _

__Finns walks around him and unlocks the cage, drunkenly climbing down. Sergio needs an extra second to breathe and straighten up a little. There’s a very painful and visible bulge in his pants. And now what the fuck is he going to do about that?_ _

__He should get Finns to, at the very least, suck him off as a thank you for putting him through… well, this. Whatever this was._ _

__Shortly once the older man has vanished, he climbs down as well and makes his way back to the DJ booth. When he gets there, the golden couple is obviously already waiting for him._ _

__So this is the moment when Stevie throws a fit, he thinks. Why did he not see that coming?_ _

__“Ooooooooooohoooooooooooo, booooooss!” Marcelo greets him over-enthusiastically, but still in the most straight manner anyone could ever get excited about two guys fiercely making out. “Way to go! That was awesome!”_ _

__“Thanks,” he says. “I guess.”_ _

__Finns leans over the booth and picks up their shirts, tossing Sergio’s at him._ _

__“What the hell was that?” Stevie asks him._ _

__“Don’t look at me! Ask him!”_ _

__“That was _your_ idea?” Xabi turns to Finns in utter disbelief._ _

__“Yeah," Finns answers, simply._ _

__“What the fuck were you thinking?” Stevie now. He doesn’t sound angry, though, as Sergio would’ve expected. Stevie’s a control freak when it comes to Finns. The dynamics between the two of them are a little too complicated for an outsider to really understand; all Sergio knows is, mess with Finns and you’re messing with Stevie. Back when they first met, after the whole mess with Xabi had been cleared and Stevie and Finns were on speaking terms again, Sergio tried to hit on the Irishman, only to get threatened by Stevie. Not only he'd slept with Xabi in the past, he wanted to do Finns as well. Gerrard got out of his mind. Usually, Sergio wouldn't mind that and, just out of spite, would make a move anyway. He didn't, though, out of consideration for Xabi and how hard he had to fight to keep the balance in this new weird relationship of his._ _

__Now, though, the English half of The Couple looks merely curious about him making out with his best friend. If not thoroughly amused. If Sergio didn't know better, he'd think Gerrard _liked_ what he saw._ _

__“I don’t know,” Finns replies, shrugging._ _

__Sergio frowns at his friend. There’s an odd droop on his shoulders and his head is hanging low, like he doesn’t want to look anyone in the eye. A mere second ago he was all fire and sex and now he’s turned into a little ball of sadness. “Hey,” he says, genuinely concerned. “Are you ok?”_ _

__“Yeah.” Finns walks over to him and places a quick peck on his lips. “Thanks for the dance.” He then turns around and kisses both Stevie and Xabi on the cheek. “See you guys.”_ _

__With that, and without giving anyone else a chance to start up conversation again, Finns just walks away._ _

__Stevie sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll go see what’s up with him.” He kisses Xabi on the face as well before walking after the other man._ _

__Sergio is still watching them go when Xabi clears his throat to catch his attention, a lopsided smirk dancing on his smart features. “So,” he starts. “Did you have fun?”_ _

__Sergio sighs. “Will you think I’m a horrible person if I tell you I just want to pin him to the floor right now and fuck the living daylight out of him?”_ _

__Xabi lifts him an eyebrow. “Well, I can see that.” He nods towards the bulge._ _

__“Speaking of that…” Sergio puts his shirt back on. “Hey, Marcelo. I need you to keep spinning for me a while longer, ok?”_ _

__“No worry, boss!”_ _

__“Good.” Sergio turns back to the dance floor, eyes already scanning the entire place after a very familiar bald head._ _

__“Where are you going?” Xabi asks._ _

__“To find someone to take care of this for me. I’ll talk to you later, Xabi.”_ _

__Now where the hell is that stalker when you need him?_ _

__x-x-x_ _

__

__Stevie finds his best friend fighting with gravity to keep standing while he tries to signal for a taxi. Finns is still bare-chested, his shirt barely hanging on his shoulder. “Fucking arsehole!” he yells at yet another car that doesn’t stop for him. “What the fuck is wrong with you lame arses? Don’t these fucking taxis need passengers?! Stupid Scousers! You should all starve to death, see if I’ll give you my money!”_ _

__Stevie sighs. Just a minute ago inside Finns looked like the most appetizing guy in the club, now he just looks pathetic. He wants to put a coat on that crazy fucker, take him home and tuck him in bed. Then Stevie remembers Finns is 35 and that he is not his mother, despite of how much it might seem like otherwise at times._ _

__“They’re not gonna stop for you, Finns,” he says, approaching his friend. Finns turns around to look at him and nearly falls down, but manages to regain his balance in time. “You look like a prostitute in search of a few quid, not a ride home.”_ _

__“Fuck you, Stevie. Fuck all you Scousers.”_ _

__“Just put your shirt on.”_ _

__“Don’t want to.”_ _

__“It’s cold out here, Finns.”_ _

__“Fuck you, I’m hot.”_ _

__“Well, I can see that.” Stevie cocks an eyebrow at the bulge in his friend’s trousers._ _

__Finns follows his eyes down. “Shut up.”_ _

__“Come on.” Stevie pulls him closer by the arm and has very little problem containing the other man with one hand while he takes the shirt with the other. Stevie puts it around his shoulders, then forces him to stick his arms into the sleeve holes, one at a time, and once Finns is done being a fucking prick, Stevie does up the buttons. “There. Now you look like a respectable person having a bad night, not a crazy slut.”_ _

__“Have I told you to go fuck yourself tonight?”_ _

__“Several times.”_ _

__“What are you still doing here then?”_ _

__“I’m being a darling and taking care of you. You can thank me later.”_ _

__“Fuck you.”_ _

__“Aren’t you sweet, Stephen?”_ _

__“This is all your fault.”_ _

__“What is my fault?”_ _

__“This! Everything! You brought me here tonight! I knew I shouldn’t have come.”_ _

__“Hey, when I delivered you to Sergio, you weren’t half as drunk, completely dressed and you didn’t have a hard on either.”_ _

__“I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have come here…” Finns starts walking away from Stevie, mumbling as he goes. “I hate this place. I hate everyone. I wish a meteor would just fall from the sky right now, right over my head. It would kill everyone and it would start with me. They should bring back dinosaurs to eat the fuck out of all of us.”_ _

__Stevie shakes his head and skips behind to catch up, pulling Finns back by the hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”_ _

__“To hell! That’s where I’m going, to fucking hell!”_ _

__“Finns. Stop saying nonsense.”_ _

__“I just want a fucking taxi.”_ _

__“I’ll get you one as soon as you answer me one thing.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“I’ve seen you drunk out of your ass, but you never even so much as got up on a chair. Not that I’m complaining, ‘cause I rather enjoyed the spectacle, but what the fuck was that all about?”_ _

__Finns narrows his eyes at him and leans forward. “Does your husband know you were checking me out?”_ _

__“Of course,” Stevie shrugs. “He was checking you out with me.”_ _

__“You’re all sick.”_ _

__“Sick? You had sex in a Go-Go cage.”_ _

__“I wasn’t having sex!”_ _

__“You were one dick away from having sex.”_ _

__“There were no dicks involved whatsoever.”_ _

__“Tell that to the bulge in your pants.”_ _

__Finns snorts and looks away. “Fuck off.”_ _

__“Whatever. That’s not what I asked. What happened to get you into that crazy mode? Did Sergio give you something?”_ _

__The Irishman tries to hold back a wave of laughter, but fails. When he throws his head back, Stevie has to hold his arms to keep him from tumbling down._ _

__“That was a good one, Stevie!”_ _

__“Was it?”_ _

__“Sergio gave me tequilas! Several tequilas. At least more than three.” He puts four fingers up in Stevie’s face. Then frowns and starts counting the fingers. “That’s not three, is it?”_ _

__“No, you skunk.” Stevie holds his fingers and pulls his hand down. “What the hell happened?”_ _

__Finns takes a deep breath and turns his face away from Stevie. The sparkle in his eyes dim considerably and suddenly his friend looks sad again, downcast. Almost sober._ _

__Stevie frowns. So maybe Sergio isn’t his favorite person - Sergio’s great, actually, but he used to sleep with Xabi, so that takes vital points away from him - but Stevie actually thought it was nice to see Finns getting all over someone who wasn’t Daniel. Maybe it’s a sign that things are finally starting to change, that his friend is finally realizing that he should be out there being gorgeous rather than home and depressed about the knobhead of a boyfriend he has._ _

__But something is telling him that Finns would never do something as extravagant as that without a reason. And Stevie can tell, just by the look on Finns’ face, that he’s not going to like it._ _

__“Hey,” Stevie says, soothingly, touching Finns’ face gently and forcing him to meet his eyes again. “Are you ok?”_ _

__Finns just shakes his head, slowly, but not moving away from his touch. Stevie pulls him into an embrace, kissing the top of his head and sliding his hand up and down Finns’ back. The Irishman rests his head on Stevie’s shoulder, but doesn’t put his arms around him._ _

__They stay like that for a moment before Finns begins to speak. “You were right,” he mutters._ _

__“About what?”_ _

__“... Daniel.”_ _

__"Is there a reason why you’re saying this now or is it the booze talking?”_ _

__Finns pulls away from him and his eyes look puffy and red now. There are no tears, though. Finns is forcing them all back. He hates crying, Stevie knows._ _

__“He’s inside.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“There.” Finns nods towards the club._ _

__“Daniel?” Stevie blinks. “How is Daniel here? What is he - _Oh_.” It takes him whole five seconds to understand the obvious. Daniel is doing what Daniel always does. Screwing up. “That fucking arsehole.”_ _

__“I want to go home.”_ _

__“Don’t you want me to kick his arse first? ‘Cause I can.”_ _

__“No, I just want to get out of here.”_ _

__“I’ll take you.”_ _

__“No! I can go by myself.”_ _

__“You can barely stand up straight, Finns.”_ _

__“I’m fine.”_ _

__“Finns…”_ _

__“I have to go take care of this,” he points towards his crotch. “What I need is something I can fuck.”_ _

__“I have immunity.” Stevie shows him the ring on his wedding finger._ _

__“Yeah, so go find your husband and go to your own home. Let me have a wank in peace.”_ _

__“You know…” Stevie starts with a smirk. “I think Sergio would gladly offer you a hand with your problem.”_ _

__Finns tries to give him a shove but he’s the one who ends up nearly falling. “Stop giving me ideas, Steven. Just get the fuck off. I’m going home.”_ _

__Stevie sighs, defeated. Finns is one of those independent drunkards, who like to think they’re in control of everything and not half as drunk as they really are. He becomes twice as stubborn and just impossible to deal with._ _

__What Stevie wants to do is make sure he’ll get home ok and not do anything stupid. Not only is he drunk, he’s also angry and quite possibly depressed - once again thanks to that Danish cunt. But it’s easy to see how that’s not going to happen without a fight, which, all things considered, might not be worth having right now._ _

__“Fine,” Stevie gives in. “I’ll get you a taxi.”_ _

__Finns takes some stumbling steps back as Stevie waves to the first taxi that passes them by. Unsurprisingly, the driver stops._ _

__Stevie opens the back door and ushers Finns inside. His friend has a bit of difficulty working how to get in without knocking his forehead anywhere, but he eventually does. Stevie leans over and sticks his head in._ _

__“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”_ _

__“Nooooooooooo,” Finns shouts in his face. “Does your man know you’re so obsessed with me? Jesus.”_ _

__Stevie rolls his eyes. “Yes, he does, and he would be the first one to send me home with you. Xabi can take care of himself, you on the other hand - don’t even start, Finns, you’re a terrible drunk. Just make sure you go straight home and don’t do anything stupid, alright? I’ll call you in the morning to see whether you’ll be fit for work.”_ _

__Finns slumps back against the back seat and immediately starts blinking slowly. He’s not going to last awake for the whole trip. “Don’t think I’ll be.”_ _

__“Not a problem. I’ll make some stuff up for you.”_ _

__“’K.”_ _

__Stevie gives him a little smile and a pet on the head. “Idiot.”_ _

__After he shuts the door, Stevie moves to the front window to speak with the very suspicious taxi driver. “Hey, mate. He’s had a bit too much to drink.”_ _

__“I can see that. I’ll charge extra if he throws up inside my taxi.”_ _

__“He won’t. He’s probably gonna fall asleep in a minute.”_ _

__“I heard that!”_ _

__“Shut up, Finns. Here.” Stevie stuffs his hands in his pocket and takes out all the money he has. It isn’t that much, but it’s probably more than the ride to Finns’ home will cost. He gives everything to the driver as well as the correct address. “You can keep the change. Just don’t listen to anything he says and make sure he gets inside the building safely, yeah?”_ _

__“Will do, boss,” the driver answers, winking at him and grinning largely upon counting the bills in his hand._ _

__“Ta, mate.”_ _

__When he steps away, Finns is already snoring._ _

__Stevie watches on as the street becomes quieter again once the taxi drives off, the only sounds are those of the few people coming in and out of Mercy. The loud music can barely be heard from the pavement._ _

__He takes a few extra seconds to let everything sink in. That has been one hell of a fucked up night. It will take some time to process all that happened in the last couple of hours of his life. He feels twenty-something and in university again - only then he would’ve more likely been the stinking drunk being shipped home unconscious in a taxi. It always feels strange to be the grown up around other people. It isn’t very often that he gets to experience that sort of sensation, being married to Xabi and everything._ _

__For a moment he doesn’t really know what to do first. He’s frankly a little bit lost. Following Finns home is not an option. So that leaves him with either interrogating Sergio or finding the motherfucker who catapulted all this mess. What a fucking disgraceful day the one Daniel Agger waltzed into their lives. But right now Stevie is kind of split; he doesn’t know whether he should find the bloke and beat seven kinds of crap out of him or thank him. Not only was he his usual loathsome self, which gives Finns another brand new chance to finally get rid of his freckled arse for good, but he also sparkled the most amazing moment of… Well, really, ever._ _

__Stevie just wishes he'd been a little less stunned and remembered to record the Go-Go cage part for future reference._ _


	11. Interlude II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! :) Like I explained before, this chapter is another bit of backstory - which is completely new, btw! I never published this one the first time. Next chapter will also be relatively new, but back in the regular timeline.
> 
> Hopefully, this will give you a bit more perspective into Finns' and Daniel's relationship going into the next few chapters. I hope you guys like it, of course! :) Always happy to hear your thoughts and opinions and anything else you might want to share! Please don't hesitate!
> 
> As always, do forgive me for all my English mistakes. :(

Finns is getting ready for bed when the doorbell rings. 

It's not even ten yet, he _knows_ , but he just had one of those days and his eyelids felt so heavy while he tried to read over the work he brought home. Back when he was fresh out of college he could hold on for 72 hours on sleep deprivation powered on coffee and determination alone, now look at him. Going to bed earlier than his 88 year-old grandmother in Ireland, who's probably still sitting at her local pub, having a pint. Sad to think his grandma has more a life than he does. Sometimes Finns worries that he is getting too old too soon, but mostly he tries not to feel so guilty about it. He is a hardworking man, after all, and money doesn't just grow on trees. Or that is what he tells himself every time he wastes another perfectly good night of his youth.

It's probably one of his neighbors at the door, he thinks, or maybe Dirk, with some unimportant announcement such as new painting on the hall walls or the use of insecticide on the emergency stairs. Because he's not in the mood of sparing precious ten minutes of his time making small talk, Finns moves on his slowest steps in the hope that whoever it is has given up by the time he gets there.

But of course it's not a neighbor and not Dirk either. It's Daniel. It's always Daniel these days.

"Daniel," Finns says, around a deep sigh, by means of greeting, barely disguising his disappointment.

The smile on the younger man's face morphs into a scowl. "Well, hello to you too, sunshine."

"What are you doing here?"

"What do you think I'm doing here?" The young man pushes Finns' arm out of the way and simply walks around him to enter the apartment without waiting for any sort of official invitation to do so. If he hadn't been so tired, Finns would've stopped him. As it is, though, he's easily beaten. 

"I don't remember sending you any texts about tonight." 

"You didn't."

"Well. That should've been your hint, then."

Finns thought that keeping a side-kick for sex would be easy and practical, which it is, actually, most of the time; he just didn't take the collateral damages into account. It's been roughly six months since they started seeing each other and, technically, the rules of engagement haven't changed yet - whenever Finns has some time to spare from work, he lets Daniel know by texting him and inviting him over. Only Dan keeps getting more and more comfortable and, lately, rules are being bent left and right and certainly a lot more than Finns considers advisable. More often than not now Daniel stays over instead of going back to his own home when they're done; he calls Finns randomly during the day to check on him, sends really inappropriate pictures of body parts with awfully corny phrases such as _'thinkin of u'_ or _'look whos up and askin for u'_ ; sometimes, like tonight, he simply shows up out of his own will. For someone who promised to behave and accept the terms he was offered, Daniel has lots of _wills_. And it's not even always about sex, which is probably worse. 

He comes over when he had a bad day and wants someone to talk to, or when he's very happy about something and wants to share the news. He's very unlike Finns in that regard (as well as in many others), wears his feelings as bright as daylight and welcomes everyone to it. Finns finds it oddly compelling, but also very hard to deal with. He's become Daniel's go-to person, for some reason. And that is just - well, suffices to say, not something Finns was counting on.

Truth be told, he likes Daniel. A lot. He's not just some dumb kid like Finns first imagined. Quite the opposite, actually; Dan's smart, ridiculously talented (Finns hasn't got a clue about art, which Stevie likes to say it's his one big flaw as a bourgeois gay man, but he still knows what he likes and he likes what Daniel paints), possesses a cracking sense of humor and, without his stupid Mohawk (which he got rid of shortly after they started their _thing_ , exclusively for Finns' benefit), he looks more grown up and less like a twink. He's still a twink, only it's easier to face that when he looks more like his 21 years of age than 17.

So, yeah, all in all, it's been quite enjoyable six months. Except once you reach six months seeing the same person as often as Finns is seeing Daniel, it's hard to avoid things getting messy. Finns has been very careful as to not give out the wrong impression: he hasn't taken Daniel out on dates, hasn't introduced him to any of his friends, hasn't even allowed him to keep toiletries or clothes in his apartment. They are not an _item_ , that is very clear. Except Daniel is just that kind of person - he couldn't give a bigger shit about old-fashioned rules for dating. He thinks they have a _connection_ , and that's enough for him.

The big problem is: there's a part of Finns that might be starting to - _maybe_ , in a _very, very_ far corner of his mind - see some point in that _connection_ bollocks as well. And he'll be damned if that doesn't terrify him. 

It's not that he's afraid of commitments - it's just he's afraid of commitments with a 21 year-old who has absolutely _nothing_ in common with him other than the fact they both seem to enjoy spending time together. Just to imagine the lecture he'll get from Stevie if he ever finds out Finns has been giving the _Stalker Situation_ , as he calls it, some serious thoughts...

"It's been ages since I last saw you," Dan states, crossing his arms over his chest and making a face that Finns just cannot stand - it's _way_ too cute and it makes him look _way_ too young. Finns absolutely hates that he's developed such a soft spot for someone who's ten years his junior. 

"It's only been a week, Daniel. Don't be so dramatic," he replies, avoiding focusing on the other man's pout, lest he starts faltering. Daniel needs to go, he needs to get some sleep, and the two of them probably need to stop seeing each other for good.

"Do you know how long a week is? Seven fucking days. That's ages to me." Oh, to be young and impatient... That sometimes exhausts Finns to no end, although he'll admit that, every once in a while, he does find it amusing. He'll go as far as to say it can be _endearing_ , how Daniel simply doesn't know how to stay still and wait for absolutely nothing. Finns remembers what that sort of eagerness feels like; now, however, he goes to bed before ten. 

Finns takes a deep breath, eyelids still heavy and tired, and says, "Look, Dan. Tonight is not a good time, ok? I'm too tired right now and if I can manage to stay up, I still have work to do. So..." He holds the door open and hopes the boy will understand the message. Yes, he has made their meetings scarcer for reasons that go way beyond work, but he's not even lying this time. He really is completely drained and the stamina of his tender twenties has stayed behind.

Daniel narrows his eyes to slits, tilts his head suspiciously to the side. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"Breaking up?" Finns asks, arching his eyebrows. "In order to break up with you we'd have to be together to begin with, which we're not. You're not my boyfriend."

Daniel rolls his eyes at him. "You and your labels. Fine. Are you _ditching_ me, then?"

Finns considers taking the opportunity to end things between the two of them. He's been postponing it for weeks, anyway. He wasn't going to bring it up tonight, maybe not even this week or the next, but since Daniel's here, and since he is the one who mentioned it... 

Suddenly, Finns finds himself remembering all the trouble Dan went through just to get Finns to let him in when they met. He just kept coming back to his apartment for days, relentlessly, until the door was finally opened and he somehow managed to convince Finns that he could be a good investment in the long run. That's one hell of a fighting spirit that boy has; annoying, certainly, but you gotta admire his fire. 

In spite of his admiration, Finns is simply not in the mood for that sort of persistence tonight.

"I'm just saying," he answers after a beat. "Not tonight."

"Are you seeing someone else?"

"No," Finns replies, truthfully. He has seen other people, not many, but a few, mostly sparked by Stevie, who acts like he doesn't give a shit about Finns seeing Dan on a semi-regular basis, but does his best to make sure his friend will realize that there's a whole world of possibilities out there - all, in Stevie's opinion, better than the punk kid from Mercy. 

Finns never told Dan about his dates, not exactly, although he did say it was ok for the boy to see other people when he asked - 'Why do I care if you see other people? We're not exclusive'. Daniel looked like he was mildly hurt by Finns' dismissiveness, or perhaps by what he read between the lines. What he didn't see, though, was the bubble of jealousy growing silently inside of the older man. 

"But even if I was," Finns adds after a moment. "It would still be none of your business."

"God," Dan says, shaking his head. "You can be such an asshole sometimes, do you know that?"

"How am I being an asshole?"

"You treat me like I'm a fucking call boy," he retorts, real heat in his voice now.

Finns opens his mouth to answer, offended by the accusation, but finds no argument to rebuke it, so just snaps it back shut. It's not that he doesn't have anything - Finns cares about Daniel, he likes Daniel, he talks to Daniel about things he wouldn't talk to a call boy about - it's just that he doesn't want to say it out loud and watch the realization of what it means dawn on the other man.

"Everything's about you," Daniel continues, eyebrows furrowed deeper. " _Always_. What you want, when you want and how you want. I have to sit quietly and wait for you to send me a freaking text otherwise you barely even answer me. I sent a billion messages this week and never heard back from you."

"I... Had a busy week."

"And you can't take five bloody seconds of your day to text me back and let me know you're still breathing? Jesus, Finns. Has it ever occurred to you that if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be? I could be out there doing a million other things."

"Why aren't you, then?"

"Because I fucking want to be here!" he nearly shouts. "There are two of us in this! I'm a person too, you know. I hate it when you act like you don't give a shit. Like I'm a kid who needs to be schooled in the arts of whatever the fuck you think this is and what _I_ think or how _I_ feel just doesn't matter. One day you're all giggly and kissy and the next you look at me like I'm a fucking nuisance. Just make up your fucking mind."

Well, that... Is just horrible. Really. And also, probably, the reason why Finns has to be hard on Daniel. He refuses to settle for less than what he thinks he should get, even if what he wants is way above the agreed package. It's not that he needs to be _schooled_ \- but in ways, he does. Obviously he doesn't understand what _just sex_ means. Young people - they often don't. Everything is too intense when you're 21. And this is exactly why Finns should've never let things get this far. At six months, Finns is probably the longest relationship Daniel’s ever had in his life.

"Look, Dan. I'm sorry, ok?" he starts. "But I gave you a hand and now you want my whole arm. You said you'd be cool with a shag, that shagging was all you wanted, and now you're bitching because I don't want to offer more? When we started this, I made it very clear to you that you should not expect anything serious. Remember? I told you it'd have to be on my terms. And you very happily agreed to it."

"I _know_ ," Daniel all but hisses.

"Then why are you so pissed at me?"

"Because I'm not a fucking whore! I just want you to treat me like I'm someone you have deliberately chosen to sleep with, not a prostitute you've hired to suck your balls. You’re not doing me any favors, you know. I came here tonight because it's been a fucking week and I actually _miss_ you. And when I get here you dismiss me like I work for you or some shit." 

For all his bad temper and big mouth, Daniel's actually hurt. Behind all that bitching is a young man who doesn't know how to handle rejection well and who is, probably, and much to Finns' fear, developing feelings he should definitely not have. Finns mostly just wants to shake his head and call Daniel an idiot because he was warned against this. Sometimes it's hard to remember he was once that age and that stupid as well, too immature to keep his emotions in check and too eager to avoid falling for the wrong person. 

When Finns doesn't say anything, doesn't offer an apology or an explanation, Daniel just shakes his head, says, "You're a fucking asshole, Steve," and walks out, slamming the door shut behind him.

It's a strange thing how people sometimes feel awful for doing the things they know they have to. Daniel's in the wrong here; there's just nothing Finns can do if the boy simply refuses to accept that they've overstepped their limits and it's time to wrap it up. Some days you win, others you lose. That's just life. Except... 

Finns can't quite help feeling guilty. Perhaps because he's been Daniel before and he knows exactly what it feels like to be rejected when you're really into someone, or at least when you think you're into someone. It’s just terrible, knowing that he's the one smashing someone's heart now, regardless of how clear he's made himself about the nature of their relationship before.

It's not entirely false that Finns has, at times, been at fault. He doesn't understand what is it that Daniel sees in him, why he seems to be so fascinated all the time, but the truth is he hasn't exactly pushed the boy away when he should've. For that alone, he is guilty. Partially, at least. And when Dan walks out on him, instead of just letting him go, Finns realizes he owes that kid something. He's got no idea what - maybe an apology, or an explanation, or just a moment of honesty.

"Dan," he says, pulling the door just a crack open. The kid is fuming, waiting for the elevator to arrive.

"I'm leaving," he replies, curtly, pressing the button again with impatience.

Finns sighs. "Let's talk," he says. "Come back inside."

" _Now_ you want me to come in? Weren't you trying to kick me out?"

"Dan..." Finns repeats, in a pleading tone. "Don't be hard."

"Geez, Steve," Daniel snorts. "I might start to think you have a conscience or a heart somewhere in there. You wouldn't want me to get that terrible wrong impression of you."

For some reason, his words sting. Slightly ashamed of behaving like a complete ass, Finns pushes the door open and motions his hand towards the apartment. "Please?"

Still seething, Daniel finally obliges. He takes three steps inside and turns back to Finns, arms crossed over his chest and chin stuck up in defiance. "What?"

Finns shuts the door and approaches the other man tentatively, scratching the back of his head as he searches for the right words for the occasion. This shouldn't be so difficult. He's a master of rhetoric; why the hell can't he break up with a kid?

"I'm sorry," he begins. You can never go wrong with a classic. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. But you're absolutely right. I have been acting like a jerk."

"Damn right you are."

"It's just..." He stops, eyes flickering away from the other man momentarily. In the absence of a better option, he decides to go with honesty. At the very least he'll sound convincing, rather than merely douchy. It might backfire, greatly, but still... The thirty-something Finns wishes all the guys who fucked him up when he was twenty-something had had the decency of being straightforward and treated him like an equal human being, rather than made all the decisions like he wasn't even there. If, in spite of all the obvious differences, Daniel's anything like him at all, then maybe this will be enough. When their eyes meet again, Finns' is absolutely bare of bullshit. "I don't know what we're doing here, Dan."

Daniel frowns, shakes his head. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means - Where is this gonna go? The two of us. What is the point of us? Right now, I feel like we're just... Wasting both of our times."

His words seem to hit Daniel like a punch to the chin. He makes a face, lips pressed into a fine, tight line. "A waste of your time. Wow, that is just - Really sensitive, you know? I was already on my way out and you ask me in just to tell me I'm a waste of your bloody time. Thank you so fucking much, _asshole_."

Finns almost rolls his eyes at him, but refrains from doing so to avoid making it even worse. "That's not what I mean," he replies, an infinite well of patience. "The opposite is also true. I am wasting your time too. Let's be real here, Dan. You're ten years younger than me."

"So what?"

"So you were still seating in a classroom in Denmark, learning how to read and write and I was already sucking cocks." Finns stops for a second, eyebrows knit together. "And that is a very disturbing thought. I have no idea why the fuck I just said that."

"Because you can't help saying stupid things to justify your stupid ideas, that's why," Daniel retorts. "Ten years is nothing. I'm not six and you're not 60."

"You're barely out of your teens. You're a college student, with a college life, college friends, college tastes. You've got an entire world still ahead of you; you haven't lived yet. While I'm... Way past all that," Finns shrugs, and then, after a beat, he adds, "What we're doing now - it's fun. I'm not going to be a hypocrite and say I don't like it. I do. Much more than I ever thought I would back when we first started - don't protest yet, Daniel, let me talk. What I'm afraid is - we've reached a point where we have to stop and really consider the bigger picture. We're in different moments of our lives. I want one thing, you want another. We just don't match."

Daniel snorts derisively. "That's such bullshit. You act like you know everything just because you've turned thirty, like that’s some bullshit age of wisdom. You're just full of crap, Steve."

"Dan -"

"No, my turn to talk," the Dane cuts him off sharply. "I don't care that you're older than me or that you don't give a shit about art, or that you get off on boring stuff like wine tasting or whatever. None of that matters. Why should our friends or our tastes mean anything? I don't care about your preferences, I care about _you_. The rest be damned."

Finns exhales loudly, thinks of all the different ways he could try to explain to Daniel why he's so bloody wrong, and decides to go with probably the one that will annoy him the most but that is also, probably, the truer one. "You only say that 'cause you're young."

"How being young has anything to do with it?" Dan asks, in a high-pitched voice from so much indignation.

"Right now you don't get it, but one day I'm sure you will."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks so much for your wise words, grandma. I'll write it down on my fucking diary."

Finns rolls his eyes at the other man. "We're in completely different places. You're supposed to be out there, getting wasted, picking up twinks and having the time of your life, while I... Read contracts."

"I don't want _twinks_. I want _you_. There were billions of twinks at the club the night I met you, but I only had eyes for you." Daniel pauses, looks away for a beat, and then, "You know what I think? I think you're insecure. You don't think anybody will ever prefer you over anyone else. I don't know why the fuck you're like that, but guess what? _I_ want you. You shouldn't be reading fucking contracts, you should be having wild sex all night, which, by the way, you're very good at."

"I'm also good at contracts," Finns shrugs.

"Steve... Look at me." Daniel takes a step closer and Finns flinches, hopes the other man doesn't notice. Proximity is a dangerous thing when you're trying to keep your stance on a difficult decision. Finns can feel it on his guts that he's starting to budge - that his strong determination has made room to Daniel's reasoning and, involuntarily, he has begun to ponder. It's two parts worry to one part pride; he doesn't want to give in because it'll make him look stupid, but also, if he does fall for the whole 'fuck this shit' argumentation, he has no more ways of knowing where things will go, not with someone as mercurial as Daniel. It will certainly not be a smooth ride, that's for sure; and Finns... He's just not sure he's ready for that. Or perhaps he has been, a long time ago, but not anymore. Daniel has arrived too late in his life. 

"Do you ever think about me?" the boy continues. "I mean... At random moments of your day. When you're at work, looking at boring excel sheets - do you ever stop and think about me?"

Finns looks away, down, takes a long time mulling over the question before finally admitting, not short in reluctance, "Yeah. That happens."

"In what way?"

"I don't know, Daniel. In... Ways," he says with impatience. Why does he have to ask all those difficult questions?! Why can't Daniel ever act like a normal person and say 'I understand'?

"Do you ever wish you could see me, just out of the blue? Do you ever get excited about meeting me? Do you look forward to it?" Dan makes a pause before adding, tenderly, and perhaps with some hesitation as well, "Do you miss me?"

Finns sighs. "Sometimes, yes."

"Well, I feel the same way. Why can't that be enough for us? I'm not saying let's get married, it's just - why can't we be together?"

"Because it's not that simple."

"What isn't? You're overcomplicating things, Steve. It's just two people who like each other very much and want to spend as much time with one another as possible. Why does it have to be about anything else? Whatever differences we have, we can find a way around it."

"Daniel, it's..." Finns starts, stops, bites on his lower lip. "It's not going to end well."

"How do you know that? Been checking your crystal ball lately?"

"I don't need a crystal ball. We'll be going against a lot of probabilities here. What seems nice and right could quickly turn into an inconvenience as soon as we start taking it seriously. Things change with perspective."

"Then don't take it seriously, if that's what's bothering you. But don't break up with me either just because you don't think I'll be the right one for you in ten years."

"That's the thing. I don't want something that I can't take seriously. Just sex is fine in the first two or three months, Daniel, but we can't do this for an entire year. Or maybe you can, 'cause that's what you've done your whole life. But I want more. I want a boyfriend."

"I can be a boyfriend." 

And that - Finns doesn't even know what to say that. It's sweet to see a kid so infatuated he's willing to offer anything in the name of what he perceives as love. But the truth is, Daniel doesn't know what being in a relationship means. For starters, his freedom will be completely hindered. And he might even feel like that's ok right now because he wants to be close to Finns, but once he starts actually _owing_ things to another person, that will surely change. Finns knows that. Been there, done that. Not only he doesn't want to have his heart broken by a kid when he just _knows_ it will go wrong, but he doesn't feel it's entirely fair on his part to force Daniel into something he doesn't have a complete grasp of. He's the mature, responsible one in this thing - whatever it is - that they have. It's his job to draw the lines. 

"I mean it," Daniel repeats when he doesn't answer. "I want to be your boyfriend. I've gone out with other people, not gonna lie, but only because you said you were too. Just say the word and I'll stop. I don't care about anyone else, Steve. If it's a choice between you and the lot of them - it's not even a tough choice."

"We'll just end up hurting each other, Dan. And then you'll hate me or I'll hate you and we'll be left with a lot of painful memories, harboring nothing but resentment for one another. Right now, I have no resentment for you at all and I'd like to keep it that way 'cause I really like you."

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be smart, you're really stupid."

"Oh, I'm the stupid one now? How's that?"

"What part of I'm falling in love with you don't you get?"

And there it is. The dreadful little word. 

The last time that word was part of Finns’ vocabulary, last time he said it or heard it in a romantic context from anyone else, was years ago, with Stevie. And those are not very fond memories for him. It created a little trauma in Finns; he cannot hear it without wincing.

The weird part is – aside from the wince, his other physical answer upon hearing Daniel's confession is getting this warm feeling at the pit of his stomach and having his heatbeat speeding up just that tiny bit, enough to steal his breath for a second. The words _Oh boy_ spring to mind.

At the same time the more reasonable part of his head tells him Daniel just doesn't know what love is, the other more untainted and believing side, a part Finns is not used to resorting to, is desperately wishing for the opposite. 

He smiles, calmly, and says the only sincere thing he can possibly say right now. "The part where you shouldn't be. I'm not your guy, Dan."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

Before Finns can say anything else and continue to repeat the same things over and over in the hope that it will, at some point, get burned onto Daniel's mind somehow, the Dane cuts the space between the two of them and cups his face with his hands before pulling him into a kiss. Finns is too stunned to respond at first, even tries to talk into their liplock, but Dan refuses to budge and deepens the kiss until Finns finally resigns and starts kissing him back. As though out of their own volition, Finns's hands slide up the boy's back, searching for a way to fit him into a proper embrace without having to break apart. He tilts his head to offer Daniel better access and soon enough they fall into a very familiar patch. 

They're so much better at this - kissing and touching and surrendering - than they are at talking and discussing relationships that it seems ridiculous that they even waste time with the second when the first is on offer. Finns's persistence in hitting the break whenever they get drawn too close causes ruptures here and there, and Daniel, being short tempered as he is, tends to storm out and protest a lot. But then, once they find the way back into each other's good sides... It's like suddenly everything starts making sense again. Their differences are nonexistent. 

It's foolishness to deny that there is a ridiculous amount of chemistry there. Things just _click_ when they're together. Daniel's not a 20-something kid anymore when they're like this - he _knows_ what he's doing and what he does goes perfectly well with what Finns likes, and vice versa.

It's just really hard arguing against Daniel's kissing. If Finns claims it does nothing to him, it will be a blatant lie.

They break apart after a long time, for air. Daniel looks right into his eyes, the green of his iris so close Finns can almost see into his soul, and grins. "Do you still want me to go?" he asks, with the confidence of a person who knows how good he is, but also that he’s not completely along in his desire.

"This is so unfair," Finns replies. "I do calculated, strong and well-founded arguments, not - This. Your way is just... Unfair."

"But it's so much better, isn't it?"

"You're an idiot."

"Maybe. But so are you."

"I'm offering you a way out, with no hard feelings."

"Steve. I've been looking for a way _in_ all this time. Haven't you realized that already?"

Finns lifts his hand to Dan's face, touches his freckles with the tip of his fingers in a gentle caress. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Daniel leans in closer, his lips grazing Finns's earlobe, his warm breath tickling his skin and making all the hair on the back of Finns' neck stand to attention. 

"You are going to love me," he whispers, as though sharing a secret.

Suddenly, the idea doesn't sound completely crazy anymore. More like inevitable.


	12. Do you hear the crack when I break?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ideas for new stories so I'm just gonna try to finish the ones I already have so that I can start working on the new ones guilt-free. But I also have this OCD-ish thing about the chapters that I'm not gonna talk about but that keeps me from uploading faster, so wtf.
> 
> ANYWAY! The middle section of this chapter has been slightly modified but it is essentially still the same. The first and last sections are both completely new. So if you're reading this for the second time - yaaay, new chapter! :)
> 
> As always, apologies for my English! Please be kind with my mistakes. :/ And feedback makes my day! So please, let me know your thoughts!

The minute Finns stumble out of the cab, all the content of his stomach decides not to sit still anymore. He manages two awkward steps away from the car before he's bending over and boarding on a time machine back to the year 2000. This - getting high on cheap drinks and vomiting on the side walk, all over his own shoes - hasn't happened since he was 20 and thought 'YOLO' was a very honorable life motto. He didn't wear 500 pounds shoes back then, though. It was ok to ruin a pair of Converse sneakers, but the same can't be said about Italian leather. The reflux is so violent Finns thinks he might be losing some vital organs in the process. He's also pretty sure there are things he ate in 2005 coming out of his mouth.

"You all right there, mate?" someone asks, softly, pitifully. Finns manages to turn his face an inch to the side to see the man out of the corner of his blurry eyes. It's the taxi driver, standing at a safe enough distance as to not get sprinkled with anything nasty. It's only a millisecond break and then he's throwing up again.

When it finally stops, Finns feels so empty it's like not only his body has been cleared, but his soul as well. Maybe he vomited his soul, if that's possible. Maybe this is how people lose their souls. Spiritual death by tequila is definitely a thing. Finns' head is spinning around and his eyes are burning. Later he'll realize that's actually because he's still drunk, but right now it feels a lot like a plausible consequence of being absolutely devoid of life.

It's a few minutes until he's able to stand straight again and take a deep breath without going back to pouring out his interiors. He wipes the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand and turns back to the driver, who offers him a compassionate smile. Even in his current state of devastation, there's still a tiny chip of consciousness left in Finns telling him that this has got to be the lowest point of his entire life. He's done worse than this, of course - his 20 year-old self would _laugh_ if he could see him right now, almost passing out on tequila shots; 20 year-old Finns would call him a pussy because 20 year-old Finns was a devil. But you can get away with that sort of thing when you're young. People expect you to be stupid and reckless and outrageous and even, maybe, a bit disgusting when you're young. Not when you're 35. Thirty five year-old men are closer to their 40s than they are to their 20s. It just makes you pathetic and bottom down ridiculous to do that sort of thing when you reach a certain age. And being given the look of shame by a taxi driver, honestly... It can't get much worse than that.

Or rather, it can. In the morning, once the friendly oblivion of drunkenness has cleared and he's left with nothing but a hangover from hell to add misery to lots and lots of terrible memories, he's sure it will all seem much worse than it does right now. And he has a feeling that throwing up on the pavement won't even be the worst part of tonight. 

"Your mate paid me good money to make sure you arrive home ok," the driver explains. "Do you need help?" 

Finns only understands part of what the man says - half of him is still too drunk, the other half is focusing hard on staying on his feet and not vomiting again for him to pay significant attention to anything else.

"I'm fine," he says, as resolutely as a human being in such a dire state possibly can, and waves his hand at the man, indicating that he can leave, although he's not sure his signal made much sense to the guy. It was just a random jiggle of hand; it could mean anything to a sober person.

The first few steps are the hardest ones. The short-term effect of inebriation at this level is that suddenly he forgets how to command his own legs, because he's pretty sure he's telling them to move forward in a straight line, but they keep sending him sideways and not at all steady. The driver stretches out his arms to him, offers to help him get to the building - but Finns will be damned if he'll accept the help of a babysitter paid by Stevie. He's a thirty five years old man. The least he can do is stand up and walk, for God's sake. Besides, Stevie should expect him to act exactly like that. He knows what kind of drunk he is: belligerent and self-sufficient. 

After much effort and nearly falling on his ass about a million times, Steve finally makes it up the steps (why so many steps on a building entrance? Who the fuck thought that was a good idea?). Victorious, he turns around and smiles defiantly at the driver, just to prove that _yes_ , he can. The driver laughs a little, shrugs and bids him good night.

When he turns towards the building, Dirk, the night shift doorman, is already there to greet him.

"Mr. Finnan?" he asks, tentatively. He has probably never seen Finns looking so appallingly out of measure before. "You all right, sir?"

Finns stands up very straight, chest sticking out, a posture that is obviously not very natural, and tries to look as dignified as he can - which, granted, is not a lot. "Yes, Dirk," he answers, making an effort to speak without getting his syllables messed up. By the look Dirk gives him, it comes out sounding like he's having a mild stroke. "I am fine. Thank you."

Dirk holds the door open for him and waits until he's safely inside. "You need help with anything, sir?"

Finns almost gives him a straight out no, but stops midway. "Actually - could you hold the elevator for me?"

"Of course."

That's actually a brilliant idea, because the walk across the main hall is long and tortuous - not to mention painfully slow. Dirk keeps the door open for him and Finns avoids the embarrassment of having to search for the button himself. He nods towards the other man in a thank you gesture and the Dutchman says something in return, but Finns doesn't really listen, already closing his eyes and leaning against the back of the elevator. The little poise he managed to maintain throughout the whole thing abandons him the minute the thing starts moving, though: Finns bends over and throws up again. And again. 

After what seems like hours trying to fit his key into the hole, the first thing Finns does upon walking into his place is searching for his home phone. He presses the speed dial to the building's front desk.

"Yes?" Dirk's voice answers.

"Dirk, it's Steve Finnan."

"Hi, Mr. Finnan. Do you need anything?"

"No, I... Dirk, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what, Mr. Finnan?"

"I did something terrible, Dirk. I'm so, _so_ sorry." 

"It's ok, Mr. Finnan."

"No, it's not. It's awful. I'm so drunk.... God... Can you forgive me, Dirk? I'm so sorry. I really am."

"What did you do, Mr. Finnan?"

"I... threw up... on the elevator."

"Oh," Dirk pauses. "That's all right, Mr. Finnan. I can clean it up."

"I'm so sorry, Dirk. You shouldn't have to do that."

"It happens. It's not the first time. I appreciate it that you called to let me know, sir. Most people act like there aren't cameras in there and pretend it wasn't them."

"That's terrible. Who would do such a thing?"

"Lots of people do, Mr. Finnan."

"I don't. I wouldn't. I - I'm so sorry."

"It's ok. Have a good night, Mr. Finnan."

Before Finns gets any chance of apologizing again, the doorman hangs up. Dirk is a very good man, Finns likes him a lot. He would clean up his mess himself if he thought he could, but he'll just end up making it worse. Dirk has enough work as it is taking care of such a high maintenance building. His neighbors keep ringing the poor man to complain about _everything_. _Dirk, there's a spider on the emergence stairs_ ; _Dirk, could you help me change a light bulb in my kitchen?_ , _Dirk, could you wash my car?_ Snob, spoilt idiots, all of them, exploiting the doorman, is what he's always thought. Except he's one of them now, making Dirk clean up vomit. That's way worse than spiders and light bulbs. That's so fucking inconsiderate. Finns feels terribly compassionate towards the Dutchman right now. He screwed up big time, massive, massive fuck up; he just wants to curl up and cry for all the vomit he's making other people take care of.

It doesn't occur to him that there might be other reasons why he's such an emotional wreck right now. It will, though, at some point. There's an immense snow ball rolling down a cliff somewhere above Finns right now, picking up all sorts of crap on its way, becoming bigger and thicker and just impossible to avoid. Being drunk is distracting him from the imminent danger; all that throwing up and fighting with his own body to keep some manner of control is keeping his mind from wandering down darker paths. But that's not going to last forever, of course. And when that snow ball finally hits him, the damage will be... Considerable, to say the least.

Finns is the epitome of self-control and restraint, but suddenly he feels like all those years of perfect poise are coming back to bite him in the ass. It will finally take its toll on him, all the sacrifices he's made, mostly regarding his dignity and self-respect, in order to save his relationship with Daniel. It was not easy to accept some of the things he accepted, to be willing to overlook Daniel's misdemeanors and flaws and all the one hundred ways in which they simply don't click. He's sure there are plausible reasons why he's done that so many times over the years, it's just he can't remember any right now.

All that throwing up has sobered him up a bit, it seems, because he's now worse than he was an hour ago. Finns is starting to feel sick in ways he doesn't know how to handle. It's not just a stomach issue anymore, it's... Something else. A monster chewing away on his insides, threatening to come out and chew away on his sanity as well. Or what's left of it after tonight, anyway. He's sure there isn't much. He's wasted it all on that Go-Go cage routine.

He manages to grab a bottle of wine in the kitchen, open it without falling on his ass, before he moves to the bedroom. Only the bedroom has never seemed so far away - his entire apartment has never felt this unnecessarily big. And so the living room couch becomes way too good a chance to pass. Finns drops down on his cushions, starts drinking from the bottle, hoping he won't be conscious for much longer now.

x-x-x-x

 

With a grunt, Stevie drops the book he's been attempting to read and takes off his glasses. He’s been trapped on the same sentence for five minutes and still has no idea what it says because Xabi won’t stop pacing around the bedroom like he's high on caffeine or simply losing his shit. His husband looks like a manic.

“All right, stop,” he commands, a hint of impatience quite evident on his tone.

Xabi slows down but doesn’t quit his back-and-forth march. “Stop what?”

“Stop moving! You’re driving me crazy.”

The Spaniard finally halts, looks down at his feet as if he hadn’t noticed they’d been moving and then back up at Stevie with an air of absolute dejection on his face. “I’m sorry.”

Stevie pats the spot next to him on the bed and tilts his head towards it, inviting Xabi over. He hesitates but accepts, getting under the covers to sit shoulder to shoulder with Stevie, back against the head of the bed. Stevie leans over and places a kiss on his neck. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, nuzzling the skin under Xabi’s ear affectionately.

“Nothing,” Xabi says, quickly. He is totally stiff, not moving a single muscle and sure as hell not relaxing at all.

Stevie cocks him an eyebrow. “Six years we've been together and you’re seriously going to try to pull that one off with me? You need some real work on your acting skills if you don’t want me to notice how weird you’ve been all night, Xabs.”

Xabi looks down at his own hands, resting on his lap. “There is something, but I can’t tell you what it is,” he admits.

“What, like secret?”

“Yes.”

“You’re keeping a secret _from me_?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I’m pretty sure there was something about that in our wedding vows. Yadda, yadda, yadda, love you through sickness and health, blah, blah, blah, keep the sex creative, never keep secrets, ‘till death do us part.”

Xabi frowns at him, but a smile breaks onto his lips. “I’m pretty sure there was nothing about sex.”

“There was in my head.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re weird. So spit it out.”

Xabi looks away again, sighs. “I can’t tell you, Steven. It’s not my secret. And I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”

Stevie studies him for a moment. “I can understand that and I know we don’t have to tell each other everything.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” Stevie continues after a pause. “Whatever it is, it’s troubling you way too fucking much for me to just drop it.” Stevie places a hand gently on Xabi’s head and messes with his hair just because he knows how much his husband hates when he does that. The Spaniard does try to move his head away from Stevie’s touch, but not with as much purpose as he would in any other day. 

Exhaling in resignation, Xabi sits a little further apart from Stevie and turns on his side so that he can look his husband in the eye.

“All right,” he starts. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me that you won’t say a word to anyone.”

Stevie snorts. “When have I ever been a gossipy bitch?”

“Especially not to _Finns_ ,” Xabi adds, emphasizing his best friend’s name. Stevie makes a silent ‘oh’ with his mouth. He really isn’t a gossipy bitch - except when it comes to Finns. There really is no filter between the two of them, and Xabi knows that very well. But it’s not like it’s a problem, anyway. They only gossip between themselves, nothing ever makes it out of their two-men circle.

“What do you mean _especially_ not to Finns? Is it something to do with Sergio?”

“I won’t say anything until you promise.”

Stevie rolls his eyes. “All right, fine. I promise.”

“Ok. I'm gonna hold you on to that promise.” Xabi presses his lips into a tight, nervous line before he opens his mouth again, staring fixedly at Stevie as though bracing himself for courage. The Scouser hasn’t even heard anything and he already doesn’t like it. “Daniel is cheating on Finns.”

He stares completely deadpanned at Xabi for whole ten seconds, waiting for the other man to complete that sentence with something else. Daniel is cheating on Finns - With Sergio. With a woman. With a goat. The mere phrase ‘Daniel is cheating on Finns’ doesn’t actually constitute anything new or shocking. Not to him, not to anyone. Not even to Finns, whose faith in the humanity of that arsehole of a boyfriend he’s got seems to be unshakable. 

When Xabi says nothing, just stares anxiously at him, Stevie blinks. “That’s it? All that suspense for that? I know he’s cheated on Finns. Finns saw him with a guy at Mercy tonight. It’s why he went all Priscilla with Sergio.”

Xabi’s eyes widen in terror. “He saw them?!”

“Yeah.” 

“Oh God…” Xabi rubs his face with his hands. “Does Daniel know he knows?”

“How should I know?” Stevie shrugs. “I wanted to go back and find him to kick his arse, but I figured he’s not worth it. Besides, Finns is a fucking pussy. He might pity the bastard if I hurt him.” Stevie pauses. “But wait a second. You thought Finns didn’t know about that.”

“Yes…” Xabi replies, sheepishly.

“Why didn’t you want me to tell him, then? If you saw Daniel cheating on him tonight -”

“I didn’t,” Xabi cuts him off. “I didn’t even know he had been at Mercy tonight.”

The creases on Stevie’s brow deepen further as his narrows his eyes at his husband, trying to follow his train of thought. “But… if you didn’t see him, then how did you…?”

“I know because I know who he has been cheating on Finns with.”

“ _Has been_? As in, continuously?” Xabi nods. “Daniel has been regularly cheating on Finns with someone?” Xabi nods again. “And you knew about that before tonight?” Xabi bites on his lower lip, shuts his eyes for a second and then nods once more. Stevie crosses his arms over his chest and gives his husband a very stern look. “I’m waiting for a very good explanation on why Finns doesn’t already know about all that.”

“I wanted to tell him right away, I swear I did. But I figured Daniel should be the one to tell him the truth.”

“Why in God’s name would you think Daniel would have the decency to tell Finns he _has been_ screwing someone else? Jesus, Xabi. Did you hear that? _Has been_. For how long has it been going on?”

“I’m not sure… A few weeks, I think.” He pauses. “Since my first meeting with Fernando, I suppose.”

“Why would - wait. No. Do not fucking tell me -” Xabi simply nods again. “Fuck, Xabi! That blond kid? He is Daniel’s _has been_?! How the fuck didn’t you tell me that before?” 

Stevie’s voice has escalated to a near shout now, which makes Xabi’s face twist into a pitiful grimace. He looks every bit as guilty as he sounds. “I’ve only known it for one day myself. Fernando told me yesterday.”

“Yesterday is one day too long. You spent the whole night with Finns and it didn't occur to you to tell him? The whole _reason_ why Finns went out with us tonight was because of Daniel.”

“Daniel promised me he would do it.”

“Woah, woah, woah… Wait a second. What do you mean ‘ _Daniel promised_ ’? You spoke to him about it?”

“I went to his studio this morning.”

“And you promised _him_ that you wouldn’t say anything to Finns? Or me?”

“Well…”

“I can’t fucking believe this!” Stevie bellows. “You went over there to _bond_ with Daniel? Tell him ‘Oh, hey, Danny. Please, do go on, have fun with Fernando, I won’t say shit to Finns.'”

“Steven,” Xabi says, frostily. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It’s what it fucking sounds like! How the hell do you give that arsehole more time to cheat on Finns? He’s our friend, Xabi!”

“Well, I don’t know if you remember, but we were together for an entire month before you told Finns about us because you couldn’t figure out how to break up with him.”

Stevie feels a bit of a stab somewhere, his mouth drawing into a displeased curve. About a dozen different expletives rise up to his throat and nearly make it out of his mouth before he manages to swallow it back down and keep that bubble of irritation from blowing up. Stevie presses his lips together into a tight, surly line and breathes in sharply through his nose. Xabi knows better than to draw _that_ sort of comparison.

“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you’re trying to say by that because I sure as hell hope you’re not comparing me to him,” he speaks after a beat.

“I’m not comparing you two, Steven. Of course not. It’s just…” Xabi stops, his eyes flicker away from Stevie, to the walls behind him, then back again. “I don’t think it’s just a fling. Not this time. I’ve seen Daniel doing this time and time again. It’s different, somehow. I think he might be really into Fernando. And I _know_ that Fernando’s really into him. He doesn’t even know Daniel’s got a boyfriend, for God’s sake. He’s just as much of a victim as Finns.”

“ _Just as much of a victim_? Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Xabi rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t, Xabi.” Stevie watches Xabi studiously for a moment before narrowing his eyes at him again. “Oh, I see. I know what you’re doing. You’re siding up with your guy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? You’re seeing some resemblance to us in their story and now you think Daniel might’ve found true love in Fernando. You _want_ him to pick your guy.”

“No! God, no! Steven!” Xabi scolds. “That’s not at all what I want. What I _want_ has nothing to do with this. I wanted Daniel to have never cheated on Finns or I wanted to never find out about it, but I can’t go back and change that. I didn’t tell him it was ok to sleep with someone else, I just agreed to give him until the end of the week to figure out what he wants. Daniel’s a jerk for many reasons but I can hardly judge him for falling in love with someone else, can I?”

“You know, I find it very offensive when you say that kind of thing.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Xabi takes a deep breath. “See, I knew you’d get like this. It’s why I didn’t want you to know.”

“How else did you expect me to get? You just told me that you knew Daniel had been cheating on my best friend, _for a while_ , and that you promised him to keep it a secret. Can you hear the absurdity in what I just said?”

“Yeah, I can… I just… I didn’t want to get involved.”

“How can you possibly not get involved? Finns is our friend, Xabi. He would do the same thing for you.”

Xabi cocks him a pointed eyebrow. “Really? You honestly think he would side up with me against you?”

“Of course he would. Jesus, Finns would be the first to kick my arse if I did something like that to you. And that’s not even the point! The point is that hiding something like that from him is wrong and he’s going to be fucking pissed off at us when he finds out.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m not happy, Steven. But I was caught in a very difficult situation. I’m friends with both Fernando _and_ Finns.”

“One more reason for you to tell the truth to _both_ of them. You're in a very good position to let them know exactly the kind of fucker Daniel is.”

“But I couldn’t!" Xabi cries out in frustration. "Fernando was so happy about it I didn’t have the courage to tell him and whatever happens next, someone is going to get hurt, maybe even everyone. How was I supposed to simply ruin everyone’s lives like that?”

“How is any of that your fault? You know who’s ruining lives here? Daniel.”

Xabi sighs wearily. “It’s all just a war against Daniel to you.”

“You can call it whatever you want. I would have nothing against him if he wasn’t a dick, but he is and so I have.”

“That is such a lie, Steven. You were jealous of him from day one. You didn’t even know he was a dick and you already disliked him.”

“I’m not jealous of Daniel,” Stevie protests, nearly spitting out the words in sheer indignation.

"Of course you are. You're like mama bear around Finns. No, don't protest, I know what you're going to say. It's just how things are between the two of you. But the truth is, Daniel never stood a chance."

“Oh, and that’s my fault, is it? Because he’s proved to be such a good lad in the last four years.”

“No… But I do think he cares about Finns.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Xabi!” Stevie snaps. “The guy has done nothing but cheat on Finns! Over and over and over! He’s fucking gold digger, is what he is.”

"That's what I used to think, too," Xabi says, calmly. "But I honestly believe that, at some point, he realized what he felt for Finns was real. It's why he decided to settle down, against his better judgment, or his very nature, or whatever. Daniel was really young when they started dating, maybe he just wasn't ready back then - and _I know_ , Steven, don't give me that face. Being young is not an excuse for cheating; if he wasn't ready, he just shouldn't have jumped into it. I know." Stevie snorts and holds back another new batch of rude interjections. Nothing about this discussion is rubbing him the right way - not the way Xabi withheld crucial information from him and Finns, not how he colluded with Daniel and thought that a promise made to him was somehow more important than being honest with people who are actually important, not how he keeps pointing out resemblances between their situation and Daniel's and especially not how, even in amidst all of this, he still has the nerve to be condescending. Like everything boils down to how Stevie has a predictable and unfounded disdain for Daniel. He absolutely hates it when Xabi patronizes him. 

"But he did," his husband continues with his defense of that knobhead. It's unbelievable that they're even having this conversation, especially after tonight. "Somehow it made sense to Daniel, his thing with Finns. He obviously wanted to be together, even if he didn't know _how_. And Finns - he accepted the risk. He knew what Daniel was like. And he has actually behaved quite well in the last two years, hasn't he?"

“There are so many things wrong with what you just said I don't even know where to start. I am honestly _overwhelmed_ by how just plain wrong you are," Stevie says. "First of all, don't make it sound like Finns is responsible for any of this shit. You can't blame the person who's being cheated on for the betrayal, for fuck's sake."

"That's not what I -"

"And second," Stevie ploughs on, just raising his tone of voice and ignoring Xabi completely. "As for _behaving_ in the last two years - that's what you know. We know he's seeing someone now because we caught him at Mercy, and because he started doing your writer. How many strangers hasn't he taken to that club when we weren't there?”

“Well, he’s not known for being discreet. And we haven’t heard anything. Sergio would know. He always knows.”

“Why, in God's name, are you so keen on defending Daniel?”

“I’m not trying to defend him, I’m just -”

“Defending him! That's exactly what you're doing!” 

Xabi closes his eyes for a second, takes another deep breath. Albeit being together for six years, fighting is not something they’re very familiar with. Not for real, anyway. It’s usually just petty, stupid arguments, like when Stevie leaves his wet towel in bed or forgets to buy dinner on the way home, or when Xabi starts flipping through channels - _so annoying_ \- or doesn't take Stevie's suits to the dry-cleaner close to his work. Stevie can count in one hand all the times they’ve had proper, actual fights - and most of them had something to do with Finns, one way or another. Stevie knows that that fact shouldn’t be of importance, because a, they rarely ever do get in a fight anyway, and b, Xabi understands exactly how Finns fits into their lives. But then sometimes… 

It’s just a flicker of the eye or a little twitch on the corner of Xabi’s mouth. A nearly imperceptible move that says _‘It’s Finns again’_ and makes Stevie bloody irate because he knows what Xabi’s thinking - that he’s always competing with Finns, that maybe they still have funny feelings for one another, that he married Finns as well when he said yes to Stevie. But it’s not like that at all. Finns is not a nuisance or an intruder. He’s part of the package, and for the better, rather than for worse. Six years and Xabi _still_ doesn't get it.

There are things about Finns, about why Stevie’s so protective of him, that Xabi doesn’t know. Can’t know. Will never know. But if he did, he’d understand. He'd maybe start acting the same way. 

“I know you’re mad, ok?” Xabi starts again, pulling a great effort in order to keep his voice civil.

“ _Mad_ doesn't even begin to describe what I am right now. I’m fucking pissed off, Xabi,” Stevie interrupts him yet again. “Do you realize what you did? You gave an okay for Daniel to decide that he fell in love with someone else.”

“Like there’s anything I can do about that. If Daniel’s going to fall in love with someone else, it is not anyone’s fault, Steven.”

“No, but you can fucking stop him from leaving Finns!” Stevie yells, all anger now. “It should be Finns leaving him, not the other way around! Stephen has gone through hell with that knobhead to get his arse kicked in the end! Four years, Xabi! Four fucking years he’ll never get back! That little shit should never be granted the right to break Finns’ heart like that after everything he’s done! And you know what else?” He pauses, wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “It will be the second time someone leaves him because they’ve fallen in love with someone else.”

“Ah,” Xabi says, eyes a trifle too wide, a trifle too sad, like he's just been punched in the guts. "So that's what this is all about. Guilt. Your guilt.”

“No, not _guilt_. I don’t regret anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. But that doesn’t mean I think he deserves it. I don't pretend to have forgotten how much I hurt Finns just because he's decided to forgive me. Do you have any idea how bloody devastated he'll be when he finds out? And here's the worst part - you _knew_ about it, you could've given him the upper hand, and you did nothing! You let Daniel go ahead with his stupid plan!”

They fall into that strange and rather unfamiliar patch of silence they’re not used to weathering. Xabi is confused and guilty and jealous and it’s all right there, as clear as daylight, written all over his features. Stevie is just a bundle of mixed anger - at Daniel, at Finns, at Xabi and at himself.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, after a while. “I have to work in the morning. I’m going to sleep.”

Stevie puts his glasses and the book aside and lies down, turning off the lamp on his side of the bed before unloading his frustrations onto the pillow by beating it up until it's fluffy enough for him to bury his head in it. He turns his back to Xabi and hears as his husband breathes hard behind him, like he’s trying to come up with something to say but can’t decide on what. Eventually, though, Xabi gives up, turns the other light off and goes to sleep himself.

Stevie scrunches his eyes shut, trying to force himself to doze off, but all he gets is the beginning of a headache. Exhaling in frustration, he turns around and sees Xabi has his back to him as well. It makes his heart sink a little. He knows that, regardless of whatever, they’ll be fine in the morning again. They always are. But still. Stevie can’t help but feel like the worst piece of shit around - ok, second worst; he could never top Daniel - for hurting Xabi, even if he did screw up. And Stevie has no doubts that he did. Finns isn’t just his friend, he’s Xabi’s friend as well. You just don't hide something like that from a friend, especially considering everything involved. _Especially_ considering it’s Daniel. 

Yeah, so he has never warmed up to the punk, so what? Can anyone blame him? Daniel never tried to prove his suspicions wrong. In the end, Stevie was right about everything. And he’s not _happy_ about it, as his husband seems to believe. He doesn't want Daniel out of Finns' life _just because_. Maybe in the beginning he would’ve been glad just to be right; after four years, though, all he wanted was for Finns to find happiness, even if it was with that son of a bitch. But some things are just not meant to be. Insisting on Daniel was much like punching a wall to try and get it knocked down: all it did was get Finns hurt. The wall is still there, standing tall, strong and screwing half of the city behind his back.

The Scouser ponders on whether he should forgive his husband so soon for siding up with that Danish motherfucker and comes to the conclusion that that’s not even a matter to be pondered over anyway. 

Daniel has gotten between he and Finns more times than he can remember. Stevie’s not about to let him get in the middle of his marriage too.

Stevie moves closer to Xabi and wraps one arm around his waist, spooning him into a tight embrace. Xabi stiffens at first, and then relaxes.

“I thought you were really going to sleep angry at me,” he murmurs.

“I’m still angry.”

Xabi is quiet for a second. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” Stevie places a soft kiss on the back of Xabi’s neck. “I’m still mad because you should’ve figured I’d be mad if I found out. But…” Stevie trails off and Xabi turns his face to him after a while, arching his eyebrows and waiting for him to continue. “Every time Daniel does something stupid like that I realize just how lucky I am to have you.”

Slowly, the lines on Xabi’s face soften a little and he seems visibly more relaxed as he offers Stevie a genuine smile. “Both of us, honey. We’re both lucky.”

Stevie shakes his head. “Nah. I’m a lot luckier than you are. You could have any gay arse you want in this world, Xabier. I’m a lot tougher to deal with. I mean, I know what you’re going to say, but between me and Finns, he’s always been the better one. Now look at us. I’m here with you while he’s probably passed out drunk at home, alone. I honestly don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Steven.”

“Sometimes I think the problem is that I give myself too much credit.”

Xabi shifts in his arms to stay face to face with him without breaking out of the embrace. He holds his husband’s face with his hands, caressing Stevie’s stubbled chin with the tip of his fingers.

“You do know that I have no fucking idea what I would do with my life if I didn’t have you, right?” Stevie says, turning his face just enough to plant a kiss on the palm of Xabi’s hand.

Xabi grins. “You would be with Finns.”

“Nah... Finns and I would end up hating each other at some point if we had stayed together. It would never work.”

“It worked for years.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t serious. I mean, it was, but… It was just convenient for us.” They lapse into quietness once again as Xabi’s eyes become distant, lost in some very old memory. “Hey,” Stevie says, holding his chin to pull him out of his reverie. He waits until Xabi’s dark eyes are back focused on his. “I love you.”

The Spaniard smiles shortly. “I know.”

Stevie places a small kiss on his husband’s mouth, just a soft pressing of lips, before pulling back. “You also know that I have to tell Finns about all of this, right? You can have whatever reason you want to bond with Daniel, but I am morally obliged to be honest.”

Xabi sighs wearily again. “You’re right… I _was_ thinking about our story when I told him I wouldn’t be saying anything.”

“I’d very much appreciate it if you _never_ repeat that again. It is simply unacceptable for you to even consider for one fraction of a millisecond that anything that comes from that shithead could ever compare to us.”

“Shitheads are capable of loving too, you know.”

“Not that one.”

“I just want you to understand that I never thought it was ok for Daniel to cheat on Finns. I never told him that he had a free card to enjoy Fernando while he made a decision. As a matter of fact, what I told him was that I was giving him time to realize how to tell the two of them the whole truth. It can’t be easy to come clean about being an asshole to two people you care for. And before you even open your mouth to say anything, yes, I do think he cares about Finns, even if he has a very weird and juvenile way of showing it. Daniel is just different from us. Different from _you_. I think that’s the part you never accepted about him. That Finns fell in love with someone who’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“Why would I care about that?”

“Because you’re possessive.”

Stevie rolls his eyes at his husband. “Someday you’ll understand that I really just want Finns to find someone who’ll make him at least half as happy as I am. I know how much that lad deserves it.”

“I understand that, honey. What I don’t understand is why you think that it’s your duty to decide what is fit for him and what is not. Finns is a grown man and one who knows very well how to take care of himself. He doesn’t need you to keep trying to take over the wheel all the time.”

“Well, maybe if he listened to me more often, you and I would be having sex right now instead of lying here talking about his life.”

Xabi chuckles and shakes his head affectionately. “I think it’s a little late for sex now. Don’t you have work tomorrow morning?”

With a deep, wounded sigh, Stevie turns to lie on his back and pulls Xabi to rest his head on his chest. He places a kiss on top of the Spaniard's head and closes his arms around his shoulders. “Yeah. Work and a pissed off lawyer to deal with. Now you can blame Finns for getting in the way of our sex life.”

“I’ll remember to register a formal complaint.”

“You do that. Just make sure you wait until he’s not angry at you anymore.”

“How long do you think that’ll be?”

“Well, last time I ate the Belgian chocolate he hides in his drawer and thinks no one knows about, he didn’t speak to me for two days. So I’d say five years for you, give or take.”

“Should I get him some chocolates then?”

“Nah. I’ll just eat it anyway.”

 

x-x-x-x

 

It's safe to say Daniel has hit the bottom of something here, possibly the pit of his own humanity. His soul is dark and damp and lonely right now. He's as much of a mess as he's ever been. And the worst part is he's not even drunk.

Maybe he should be. He definitely should be. He'd have an excuse if he were drunk. That's why people drink, so they can get away with shit. Not that it would help him much at this point. He's blown up the Fuck Up scale. 

There's this enormous blank space in his memory slot right now. He remembers Fernando pulling him out of Mercy and then shoving him into a cab, and then... nothing. It's as though he simply blacked out and only came back to his senses with Fernando on top of him, riding his cock, screaming his name. Daniel's got no clue how he got from A - the club - to B - Fernando's place, Fernando's _bed_. There was a moment of real panic there when he realized what he was doing. It felt good for about five seconds, and then his moans turned into near sobs and his dick was hard no more. 

And that is - it's pathetic. That's actually a good word to describe his night. It was Pathetic Festival. Everything about it was absurd and ridiculous, and also a bit of a daze. He wishes it would stay like that, no recollection is fine, or fin _er_. Only now it's finally starting to come back to him, with a bang. Daniel's list of screw ups is long and filthy, but he doesn't think anything has ever been quite as terrible as tonight.

Fernando was benevolent towards him, probably a lot more than he should be, because he didn't act at all like what happened was an embarrassment and kept repeating that _it's normal_ and that _it happens to everyone_ while Daniel apologized and apologized and apologized. He wanted to deny Fernando's kindness and say that it isn't normal and it doesn't happen to everyone, because it sure as fuck had never happened to him before. And it was all his fault, really, for allowing himself to be pulled out of the club and taken home without saying a word, without even realizing what he was doing. The truth is that his brain must have suffered some sort of short-circuiting and Daniel simply... Stopped. Everything. He was pulled into some dark corner inside his own head and stayed trapped in there until the moment Fernando screamed too loud and squeezed him too tight.

Every time he remembers what Finns looked like on top of that go-go cage, all sweaty and gorgeous and half-naked, glowing with arousal and sexiness as he danced with the DJ, Daniel gets turned on and then sick to his stomach, in turns. Steve might be a very reserved and quiet man on the outside, but Dan is fully aware that that's just an exterior shell built out of high education and etiquette lessons, part of Steve's successful rich lawyer act; in private, his boyfriend is a very different person. All that gentleman-y façade gets blown out the window. Steve is witty and funny and hot and provocative, so fucking bossy that the mere act of taking him feels like an enormous victory. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he would have all that... fire, in him. The moves, though - that was a little unexpected. But still. Seeing him so liberated in public, in front of an entire audience... It left Daniel so shocked that it took him a while to realize what was really going on. 

Fernando insisted that he stayed for the night, said they could just watch a movie or do something else entirely. Fernando is a great guy. He really, _really_ is. And that only made Daniel feel sicker, made him want to curl up and cry. The weight of fully understanding just how fucked up this whole situation is suffocating. It isn't just about Steve, and it isn't just about himself either. It's possible that Daniel had never really stopped to consider Fernando's role in their story, how much he'd hurt the other man as well in the process of trying to fix his mess. He just had to get out of there as fast as he could.

He told Fernando he was feeling ill - which is true - and that he had to go home. The Spaniard didn't really buy it; who would? By the way Fernando looked at him and asked if there was anything else, he obviously knew there was more to it than just a failed erection. But Daniel didn't go any further into it, didn't give anything away beyond the absolutely necessary, and rushed out as soon as the door was open.

Steve looked to be having fun up in the cage, but Daniel can't really shake off the feeling that that whole performance had very little to do with entertainment and a lot to do with him. He can't know for sure, but what are the odds that Steve didn't see him with Fernando at the club? Maybe Steve feels better now, maybe he did really enjoy it, rocking with Sergio and against Sergio, with the crowd going nuts all around them. It doesn't make him feel any better, though; it's awful to think that this is what he did to his boyfriend, made him do crazy and out-of-character stuff he'd never do otherwise.

Maybe he finally broke Steve. After so many attempts, he finally fucked up the brightest person he's ever met. 

It's only when he arrives at the building that Daniel figures he's got no idea what he's supposed to do next. Chances are, Steve is not even home yet. And if he is, there's a good probability that he's not alone. It makes Daniel terribly sad to think he could run into someone in bed with his boyfriend right now and not even have the right to feel bad about it. All he has to hope for is that Sergio Ramos fails to fuck his boyfriend the same way he just did with Fernando, although he can't really imagine why that would happen. Sergio was quite visibly turned on and so was Steve, and neither of them have any reason to feel guilty about having sex with each other. 

Instead, perhaps more realistically, Daniel hopes that they have not decided to do it at Steve's, so that he at least won't have to walk in on them, which would be... Awkward, to say the least.

"Mr. Agger?" Dirk, the doorman, interrupts his train of thought as he finds him standing outside. Daniel almost thank him for it; his brain was about to go down a very unfortunate road.

"Yeah?" 

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't really know how to say this... It's not my place to say anything, please don't feel like I'm intruding -"

"Dirk," Daniel says, already hopping up the front steps, waiting for the worst. "What is it?"

"It's just... It's Mr. Finnan."

Daniel swallows down hard. That's it. If Dirk says he's brought someone home, he'll just turn around and go ask for shelter at Nick's. "What about him?" he asks, already dreading the answer.

"He's not very well, sir. I think he's very drunk. He called me a few minutes ago almost crying because he puked in the elevator."

"He's... home," Daniel says, not as a question, as his stomach begins to revolt inside of him.

"Yes, sir. He arrived about an hour ago."

"Is he... alone?" 

"Yes, I think so. He was alone when he arrived and no one's gone up since then, that I've seen."

The Dane lets out a sharp breath in relief, which - he realizes, as he sees the look of confusion on Dirk's face, doesn't exactly sit very well. The man's just told him that his boyfriend's sick and, for all Dirk knows, Daniel's content that he's alone with no one to take care of him. "I, uh -- Thank you, Dirk," he rushes out to say. "I'll take care of him. Thank for your concern."

He's half expecting the doorman to say Steve left express orders not to let him up, but the doorman doesn't say anything, so Daniel just nods and rushes to the elevator. It smells like disinfectant.

The odor is so strong Daniel's head starts to hurt once the door is closed. The ride up seems to take forever and the smell starts to make him sick. Sicker. Daniel can't help but think that he's responsible for this elevator right now. It's his fault it had to be cleaned up. If Steve hadn't seen him at the club, if he hadn't gone crazy and taken whatever it is that he took to give him enough encouragement to get up on that cage and do what he did - because Daniel's _sure_ he wasn't pure up there; he might've been genuinely motivated, propelled on anger alone, but he was definitely onto something of a more inebriating nature; whether alcohol or something stronger, he can't tell - then he wouldn't have thrown up in the elevator and Dirk wouldn't have had to use an entire gallon of disinfectant to get it cleaned up. It can all be traced back to him and his stupid and selfish decision-making process. As with most of the tragedies in Steve's life in the last four years, mind you. He's the sole thing in this world that gets Steve moving out of his axis and freaking out every once and again.

It should make him feel good, proud, having that sort of influence over another being. The power to push someone like Steve completely out of his comfort zone is definitely something to be reckoned with. If only Daniel had ever used that for the good. 

It's interesting how everything always seem so much clearer in hindsight. Now that Daniel thinks of it, he realizes how it all went wrong, after all. He spent so much time screwing up and then having to work hard to win his boyfriend's trust back by tiptoeing around him, breaking and fixing and hurting and loving in an eternal loop, that he ended up forgetting to play his own cards in their relationship, leaving his marks and shaping things to his liking as well as Steve's. 

It's not that he doesn't like what they were like, before, or that he was ever unhappy or unfulfilled, but there was something clearly disproportionate on their mix. It was all about Steve: where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do, how he wanted to spend the night, where he'd like to go for a weekend getaway. And it's not that those were bad things, far from it; Daniel loved spending good time with his man. Doesn't matter what Martin thinks, Steve is good fun to have around. He's not all law and ties and wine tasting all the time, although those are not bad things either. Steve makes boring things sexy. It's just... Well, relationships aren't meant to be shaped just for one person's appreciation.

Daniel lived under the assumption that Steve had him wrapped around his little finger when the truth is, he's had Steve in his pocket all along. All those times he screwed up and came back begging for forgiveness - Steve wouldn't have granted him second, thirds or fourths chances if he hadn't been just as involved. 

He should've made his own moves, should've taken the wheel every once in a while. Taken Steve to places _he_ liked, spent time doing things _he_ wanted, suggested they traveled to places _he_ wanted to see. It's not like there was no dialogue, no options, no offers; Steve did ask his opinion, wanted to hear his thoughts, but Daniel never really cared that much, too afraid to take the wrong step at the wrong moment. 

In retrospect, there was a lot that could've been done to save them from this horrid ending. A lot of conversations they never had, a lot of pondering over things they never did. If they had, perhaps Fernando would've never been a thing. But they didn't, and now he is. Steve is crushed, Daniel's sick and they're most likely over. Four years that are going to end in yelling and crying and raging. It's not what they deserved. Theirs was a love story, a strange one, an improbable one, even; it's sad to see it end in catastrophe and hatred.

Dan hesitates for a moment before using his keys and opening the door. Everything he does feels a lot like a goodbye. That building is not home and those keys are not his any longer. Amongst many other things, Daniel's overtaken by a sense of grief. This is the end of something great, something beautiful, and there's hardly anything left of that. 

Daniel knows their bridges have been burned down to ashes and the gaps in their relationship are now craters. There are no amendments to be made, no glue to hold things back together. And in any case, that's not what Daniel wants, to go back to the way things were. Whatever remaining doubts he still had before, Dan is now sure he has fallen in love with someone else. He feels terrible, but he's come to a point where lying about it, either to himself or to anyone else, just doesn't make sense anymore. It's like he's suffocating, slowly, and desperate needs to come out for air. He wishes there was a way he could explain everything to Steve - let him know that, first and foremost, he was loved, and that none of it is his fault, that he's perfect and deserves to be with someone who'll make sure he remembers that every day, which is something Daniel has unfortunately failed miserably at. 

If Steve decides to hate him until his last breath, so be it; fair enough. All Daniel wants is to make sure Steve _knows_. That's all. He has to know. 

When he finally walks in, he's momentarily thrown upon finding Steve half lying, half sitting on the couch, an empty bottle of wine in hand, staring at him with big eyes, like Daniel's an apparition or the last person he would ever expect to see tonight. It takes only a few seconds before his eyes begin to darken into fury, though. Charcoal grey, sullen and choleric, threatening of near violence.

This is going to be ugly, Daniel thinks as he sighs, completely hopeless, and leans back against the closed door. He feels small under the other man's gaze, and it's hard to stare back at him; he feels as though Steve is boring holes into his soul, searching for something, a sign or an explanation, only Daniel hasn't got a clue what to show him. He doesn't know what exactly is going on through the other man's head right now, but he can read the signs of 'Keep off the grass' clear as daylight. 

He just stands there, a bit awkward, a lot nervous, unsure of what to do, of what not to do. The one thing he's absolutely certain of, though, is that Steve _definitely_ knows about Fernando. 

"Hey," Daniel ventures after a moment too long. Steve doesn't respond, doesn't even blink, so still and pale and unreadable he could pass for a wax figure in a museum. "Dirk told me you weren't feeling well," he adds, by means of conversation. "Are you ok?" 

It's a stupid question, anyway. _'Are you ok'?_ Steve is obviously still drunk, stomach sick and he just witnessed his boyfriend making out with someone else. What kind of heartless idiot would ask _are you ok_? What is he expecting to hear?

The silence between them is loaded with unspoken questions and accusations, razor-sharp. It's only when it becomes so long that it begins to hurt that Daniel decides to try again, finally taking tentative steps closer, heart beating manically in his chest.

"Steve, I..." he starts, stops, swallows down when the look in the other man's eyes remains unchanged, unrelentless, unforgiving. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know sorry doesn't make anything better and that at this point it hardly means anything to you, but - I _am_. I wish there was a way to explain or un-do things, to make it better, but - I know there isn't. I'm sorry is all I have."

Nothing.

"Look, I know you hate me right now," he continues, taking a seat on the couch opposite Steve, letting out a hitched breath. "And that whatever I say here will just sound like lame excuses. I don't know, it might be. Maybe it is. But I don't want you to think that -"

Daniel stops talking when Steve's body finally seems to gain life. His moves are sluggish and a bit uncoordinated, but not as much as Daniel would've expected. He takes his time keeping his balance and, as soon as he manages to command his legs to move forward, Steve crosses the living room. Daniel shuts his eyes and prepares for the blow - he's sure he's gonna get punched now. 

What Steve does, however, is - surreal, actually. And it happens in slow motion: Steve drops the bottle on the floor, stretches his hands out towards Daniel and holds his head firmly in place, none too gently, before leaning over to crush their lips together in a violent kiss. It's messy and hard, all teeth and saliva, and Finns is moving too fast, too eager, while Daniel just wounds up standing very still, a little afraid of doing anything and it being the wrong choice. Lately everything he does turns out to be the wrong choice.

He's too stunned to kiss back, but he offers no resistance either. Steve tastes of bitterness, a mix of alcohol, resentment and bile. It lasts forever, until his lips are numb and he can't really breathe. Steve pulls away for a millisecond, and Daniel mutters "Steve," fighting to break him apart. "Steve, wait."

Steve makes a sound like a roar of frustration and flops down on the couch next to Daniel. 

"What are you doing?" Daniel asks.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I don't -" Dan shakes his head, measuring his words. "You're drunk", he points out.

"Einstein," Steve replies, unamused.

"We shouldn't - I mean, it's not - I don't know what you want me to -"

"I want you to fuck me," he states, colorless and curt. 

The suddenness of it hits Daniel like a punch to the stomach, leaves him breathless and unresponsive. His mouth falls open, but no sounds come out. "You -- what?"

Steve rolls his eyes up into his cranium, leans his head back and makes an 'aaaaahngum' sound in his throat. "It's not rocket science, Daniel. Fuck me. That's all."

"Steve, we..." He has no idea what is going on here. "I... can't," he offers, not because he's sure of it, but because it seems like the only reasonable thing to say. There are matters of morality and ethics and respect involved in here somewhere, he knows, even though it's hard to tell exactly where those end and what comes after. Steve should be trying to rip his head off, not have sex with him; that alone is messing with the whole balance of the situation.

"Why not?"

"Because," he says, slightly exasperated. "You're drunk," he repeats.

"I'm not that drunk anymore. Most of it is out."

"But I -- I don't think that's really what you want."

"Yeah? So you know what I want now?" Steve asks, tersely. "What do I want, Daniel?"

The look he gives Daniel then is -- scorching. Face set into determination, like a challenge. Dan's eyes flicker away from him, embarrassed and defeated. "Look, we should talk about what happened, ok? I'm sorry that -"

"Oh God," Steve groans. " _Shut. The. Fuck. Up._ Do you honestly think I want to hear your bullshit? I've had enough of that for a lifetime."

"But... You just said that -"

"I said I want you to _fuck_ me," Steve repeats it once more, very slowly, for emphasis. "I don't need your guilt, I don't need your apologies, I definitely don't need your stupid explanations. What I need is your cock."

"That's just... I can't. It's... wrong."

"Wrong? _Wrong_?" Steve lets out a mirthless laugh, hoarse and wounded. "Since when do you care about what's _wrong_?"

"That's not -- It's not like that."

"That's the thing, isn't it? It's never _quite like that_ with you. Am I not good enough anymore? Is that why you're fucking other people? Because I'm too old? You said I'm too old for you."

"That's not-- No. Of course not. Steve -"

"Am I _bad_? 'Cause that's what your friends say, isn't it? That I'm too uptight. Like a _prude_ \- which, I'm fucking gay. How the fuck am I prude, honestly?"

Daniel sighs wearily. "Steve, it has nothing to do with that. It's not you."

"Is it him, then?" he prods further. "Xabi's boy. Is he so good that you don't even take interest in me anymore? Have you just found something better? Is that you're trying to say? _You're fine, Steve, he's just better_ ," Steve speaks with an affected little voice, making a horrible impression of Daniel.

Dan bites his lower lip, torn between being ashamed and offended and misunderstood. It's a lot to be feeling at once, he doesn't know how to handle. Steve's hurt in an aggressive way, Dan seems to have left an open wound on his pride. He realizes now how much worse he's made things by acting like an asshole for so long instead of simply coming clean at once; all the fights, all the nights he spent away, all the times Steve waited up for him and he never came home... He's not wrong to think Daniel just completely lost interest. Except it is a completely mistaken notion.

"Didn't you want to talk, Daniel?" he asks, pure venom. "You're quiet for someone who wants to talk. Don't you want to tell me about him?"

Daniel shakes his head. "It's not -- You know none of that is true. What happened, everything -- it has nothing to do with -- It's not about... _that_."

"You don't desire me anymore. Right now - you're pitying me. You think I'm pitiful."

And that - what is he supposed to say to that? None of it is true in the way Steve thinks, but it's also all true in different manners. Only Daniel is terrible with his words, he's always been - Steve's the one with the rhetoric. He's the one who wins all the arguments. He's winning this one too, despite being completely out of his mind.

"Steve..." He trails off, shoulder dropping in a dejected gesture. Daniel wants to tell him that he's crazy if he thinks he's not desirable or good enough - but Steve is right, they haven't had sex in weeks. Daniel avoided initiating contact because he felt too guilty, but how will he ever explain that and make it sound credible? He also wants to say that he got jealous and turned on and very, _very_ confused watching him dance with another man, so clearly he's still attracted to Steve and still has feelings for Steve, but how will he justify then leaving the club in the company of another person? Will any of that even matter?

Mostly, he just wants to say that it has nothing to do with age or beauty or bed skills, because Fernando is young and beautiful but Steve is slightly older and more mature and sexy like fuck. Daniel loves them both, but right now he's fallen out of love with one of them. And hearing that will possibly hurt Steve more than anything he's done so far.

"All I wanted," Steve starts. "All I ever asked for, was that you loved me. I tried. But you still... You couldn't love me. I knew you wouldn't, since the beginning. But I believed. Even when I shouldn't have. Was that too much to ask for?"

"That's nonsense, Steve. I love--"

"Now I don't want your love anymore. You can take it and you can give it to whoever you want."

Daniel's not sure why, but those words send a bit of a pang shooting right through him. He doesn't get a lot of time to ponder over it, though; soon enough Steve is straddling him, nearly falling off the couch in the process, which requires Dan to keep him steady by holding him tight. It's awkward and inappropriate in a million different ways, and he cannot look into the depth of Steve's eyes. 

"I don't want your love anymore, Daniel," he repeats, his face so close Dan feels his warm and alcoholic breath brushing against his skin. "Now I just want you to fuck me. That you know how to do, don't you?"

"You're too drunk," he tries again, afraid that any other plausible reasoning might hurt Steve further - "Because I'm in love with someone else", "Because I don't want to", "Because you're being pathetic", "Because I'm awful."

"When I fucked you the first time I was way drunker than this and you never seemed to have a problem with that."

"I was drunk too."

"The fuck you were. That's what you keep saying. I told you I never wanted to see your face again and you kept pushing it until I let you in. You owe me." And that - it surely can't be argued. Daniel does owe him a lot. 

"I - Steve, this is not -"

"Is that a no?"

"It's a -" Daniel stops, exhales. " _Fuck_. I just don't know what to do with you. I don't want you to hate me even more in the morning than you already will for taking advantage of you."

"Don't flatter yourself, Daniel. I'm the one taking advantage of you. I don't need to talk, or to listen, or to do anything else. I just need something I can fuck. Right now, you're the only one available. You wouldn't be my first choice, but it seems you're all I have left. So shut up, stop weeping and start _doing_ something."

When Steve attacks his mouth again, Daniel simply surrenders. He feels... Dirty. Sordid. Absolutely terrible. There isn't an inch of skin in his body that isn't disgusted to be attached to him right now. He scrunches his eyes shut to kiss Steve back, mentally begging for forgiveness as he does it. Maybe Steve will absolutely loath him in the morning, once sobriety returns to him in sharp waves of pain and regret - maybe he'd feel a lot worse if he got rejected. It's a lose-lose situation. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. Right now, however, Steve doesn't seem to give a fuck. He starts undressing and pulling at Daniel's clothes, biting him hard and leaving teeth marks all over his neck, surely on purpose - but it's just easy to fall back into familiar patterns with him. Daniel knows all those kisses and all those touches and even in the state he's in, Steve still knows exactly what to do to get him going.

_Oh God oh God oh God oh God_ , a voice keeps repeating at the back of his head, hammering away inside his skull. If there were ways to feel guiltier than already did, then this is it. He _likes_ Steve's ministrations and it doesn't take long before his body starts to respond, as though out of its own volition. Maybe his heart belongs to Fernando now, but his body still seems to be connected to Steve.

He really should've gotten drunk tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not important, but: first time I uploaded this, I meant to have this confrontation between Finns and Daniel happen in this chapter. Originally, it would go slightly different. I figured it made more sense if Finns was mean rather than weepy. He's not weepy. However, I had _such_ a hard time with this chapter the first time that at some point I just gave up, jumped this whole bit and moved on with the story like it never happened. I figured, since I'm rewriting stuff, I should go ahead and finish it, right? And, I don't know what you guys think, but I think I like that this happened. I like hurt!Finns. Am I a bad person?


	13. Think of me in the depths of your despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this is another chapter filled with new bits! Not all of it is new, but the largest portion is. I hope you guys like it. :) I decided to make this chapter a 'I get by with a little help from my friends' sort of thing, only not really. I had a really good time putting this chapter together. I love writing about Daniel's gang and also Finns being mean-ish. <3 I hope you enjoy your read!
> 
> As always, I kindly request that you forgive my mistakes. This chapter is particularly long, so it was harder than usual to catch everything (not that I ever manage to do that, mind you).
> 
> Feedback is greately appreciated and always makes me more excited about updates. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. :)

Stevie had a terrible morning, second only to his dreadful night.

During the very brief moments wherein he actually managed to shut his eyes and sort of, but not quite, silence the loud thinking he was doing in his head, Stevie felt even more tired than when he was awake. There was just so much going on in his mind that it was simply easier to focus on something else other than sleep. Like the ceiling above his head, or the rhythm of Xabi's breath, the little snoring sounds he swears to God he doesn't do but so does. Anything was game, as long as it helped to keep his interior uproar at bay. About an hour before it was time to get up and go to work, Stevie blacked out. It didn't help much.

In theory, work should be a good thing. It should give him a much welcome distraction, something constructive and efficient to occupy his time. Unfortunately, though, theory works differently in practice. Stevie couldn't get anything started or finished and even had to ask Alex to cancel one of his meetings out of sheer incapacity to formulate two whole sentences that made any sort of sense in the appropriate context. His head was definitely not in the right place and not all the coffee in the world was enough to jump-start his brain.

Stevie could not stop thinking about Finns. Or, more specifically, he couldn't stop thinking about how the hell he'd tell Finns about Fernando.

Xabi had no fucking idea the size of the bomb he'd dropped. After everything that happened the night before, Finns will be... Destroyed. A total wreck of a human being. He'll act tough and pretend he's not falling apart, because that's what Finns does, but Stevie knows better. Finns will push him away to lick his wounds alone, which is... Well, it's just awful, being the carrier of the bad news and then leaving Finns to wallow by himself. It makes everything worse, or at least it makes him feel worse, knowing that it's his job now to add misery to the already monumental pile of shit weighing over his friend's head. 

It gets Stevie really riled up - mostly about Daniel, but also because of Xabi, a little bit, if he's completely honest. The fact he forgave his husband doesn't mean he's not still mad at him for setting up some sort of pact with that asshole. So many things could've just been avoided if Xabi had done the right thing and told Finns straight away... Starting with last night. And this morning. This terrible, terrible morning. Stevie just woke up with this awful taste in his mouth and no amount of brushing or mouth-washing or mint can make it go away. And he doesn't even have anything to do with it - not directly, anyway.

He called Finns maybe a trillion times before accepting that he wouldn't be getting any responses. Then he considered calling Xabi to vent - or, simply putting it, to _yell_. Stevie loves his man to the bones, but each passing minute he doesn't hear back from Finns just gets him angrier. He wants to say, _See what you've done?_ and he wants to say, _He could be sick right now, he could be depressed, he could be crying so hard he can't even move to answer the phone or speak or breath_ and he also wants to ask, _Are you proud of yourself now, Xabi?_ , because he sometimes can get a bit too carried away in his need to sting. Stevie doesn't do it, though. He wants Xabi to feel bad, but he doesn't want to get a divorce.

He then contemplated the idea of going straight to Daniel, which, out of all the things he felt like doing, was probably the most compelling one. Daniel should have to sit down and have a talk with someone who would take absolutely none of his crap. Now that chat would go a lot different than it did with Xabi, for sure. Only Stevie couldn't exactly picture himself _talking_ to Daniel; it was more like hitting his freckled face, repeatedly. And rewarding though it may feel, it would hardly fix anything. So that was scratched as well.

Finally, after three hours of unproductiveness and then some pretending to be working, Stevie decided to take his lunch break and do something to appease his unrest, lest he started climbing up the walls and aiming curses at clients. That's how he ends up at Finns' place - with a box of his favorite chocolates in hand, just because. It'll hardly help his cause or do much to placate his friend's ire once he finds out the whole truth, but it says 'Hey, look at this thoughtful little souvenir and remember how much I care about you when you decide to hate me forever.'

When no one answers the door, Stevie starts getting worried. It is one thing to ignore phone calls, but to not even bother to see who's the manic with his finger glued to your doorbell? It's a good thing, then, that he keeps the extra key Finns left with him for emergencies on his keychain. For all he knows, this might turn into an actual emergency yet.

At first glance, everything looks normal. No corpses, no broken glass, no signs of major distress except for a nearly empty bottle of wine, forgotten on the floor. How Finns managed to fit any more alcohol in his system after what he drank at the club is beyond Stevie. It makes him feel a little guilty, really; maybe he should've come home with Finns after all. Stevie can just picture his friend, sitting alone in the dark room, nursing a bottle of wine, thinking about the downfall of his romantic life, harboring all sorts of self-deprecating thoughts... It's sad. And not something anyone should have to go through alone, especially because of assholes such as Daniel Agger. Stevie should've been there to remind Finns he's much better than all this. Probably would've gotten his ass kicked, though; sometimes Stevie thinks Finns gets off on basking in self-pity. 

There are clothes discarded on the floor as well. Stephen's always been a sloppy drunk. Stevie collects the pieces - all specked with things he really doesn't want to know - and puts it aside. Why Finns would undress in the living room he doesn't know, but, well. That's what alcohol does to people.

The bedroom door is closed, so Stevie knocks lightly first, tries calling Finns' name - when no answer comes, he pushes it open, gently, holding his breath for the chance he might find the room empty. 

It's hard to see anything at first; the room is so dark and the air is so thick Stevie needs to take a minute before he can actually concentrate on sharpening his sight and adjusting to the darkness. There's a bundle in bed, completely hidden under the covers, in the shape of something close to a person. It's only when the bundle seems to move a little that Stevie finally let go of that breath. 

The smell inside is... Oppressive. It's alcohol and sweat and something else Stevie can't quite figure out but that is definitely nasty. It makes his stomach churn as it fills his nostrils, making all the coffee he took to help him through the morning threaten to come back. Stevie takes a few quiet steps towards the window and opens the drapes just a tiny bit, shining a little light inside and pushing the window just a tiny bit to get some fresh air in there. He takes a deep breath and relaxes his shoulders. How did Finns not suffocate in this room?

"Shut the fucking drapes," comes a husky, muffled voice. Stevie turns to find the covers have been pulled down enough to reveal the top of Finns' head, his hair all sticking out in odd ways.

He smiles. "Oh, good. So you're alive," he says.

"I wasn't."

"You need some air, Finns. This place really smells like something died in here."

"Something did."

Stevie sighs but doesn't oblige, taking a seat at the edge of the bed instead. "How did you spend the night?"

There's a pause. "Not well."

"Did you have that wine in the living room?"

"... Maybe."

Stevie shakes his head. "You're like a child, aren't you? If there's no one around to take care of you, you just start doing shit."

Finns pulls the cover a little bit further down and reveals his eyes, all red and somber. It takes him a second to adjust to the clarity, a deep frown between his eyebrows. "Who opened the door for you?" he asks with a very raspy voice.

"I did," Stevie shrugs. "I have your key."

"That's an emergency key. You're supposed to keep it safely at your place and only retrieve it when _I_ need it."

"Well. You can retrieve it from my keychain when you need it," Stevie says, grinning. 

"Have you been making yourself comfortable around here without my knowledge?"

"Of course not," Stevie answers. "But - so what if I was? It's me. You shouldn't mind that."

"Right now I mind that a lot."

"I was worried about you," Stevie explains. "And I also brought you your favorite chocolate."

Finns' face - or what Stevie can see of it, anyway - contorts into an ugly grimace. "Don't even say that word. I can't even think of chocolate right now."

"That's what you get for partying like a teenager. Think better next time you decide to knock back two hundred tequila shots," Stevie says.

Finns grunts a displeased sound that doesn't make a lot of sense and finally pulls the covers down. His complexion is ashen and exhausted. Stevie smiles; a few laugh lines here, some tiny wrinkles there, a shorter haircut, but Stephen still looks pretty much the same he did after awful party nights more than ten years ago. It's been ages since he's last seen Finns like this, so unguarded and bare of all his usual poise and grace. The Scouser finds himself thinking of old days, when Stephen wasn't so thick-skinned and kept his disarrays under the rug and safe from anyone else's eyes. In that sense, he's a lot like Xabi, except Stevie gets to see Xabi's vulnerable side more often. It makes Stevie wonder the things he's missing here, the bigger picture he's not seeing; Stephen could be on the verge of losing his mind and he'd never know. Hell, Stevie knows he would be if he'd been living with Agger.

"Is Daniel..." Finns starts, eyes down and unfocused, suddenly very thoughtful. "Isn't he home?"

"No," Stevie answers. "Why? Did you think he'd be?"

"No, I... I don't know. Maybe."

"He didn't come home last night, did he?"

Finns is quiet for a moment too long, and for a second there Stevie thinks the answer to that question would be yes, which - that kid has a lot of nerve showing up at _Finns's_ home after what he did. It can't even be said that the least he could do would be to keep out of sight for a while because that's not the least; the least he could've done would be to not cheat on Finns, or to be a fucking man and tell him about it the first time it happened. But that would've been too noble for a scumbag like Daniel.

"No," Finns finally replies, still not meeting Stevie's eyes. For some reason, he thinks his friend looks a lot sadder than he did a second before, as though the memories of what happened are finally starting to become clear again in his foggy head. Stevie feels almost guilty for bringing all that back so soon. He definitely feels awful for the part Finns doesn't even know yet. 

"Well, thank God that punk isn't here, or I'd have to punch him," Stevie says. His tone is lighthearted but his words aren't really that far from the truth. 

Finns makes a face again, wrinkling his nose. "Is that me?" he asks. "That smell?"

"I'm afraid so, yes," Stevie says. "You stink, Stephen."

"God," the other man says around a sigh. "I blame you."

"Me? What did I do?"

"You dragged me out last night. I didn't want to go."

Stevie opens his mouth to retort and say that Finns started getting drunk long before things turned really dire and that he was having a good time with Sergio until Daniel screwed everything up. He wants to say that if he hadn't been at Mercy the night before, then he would've never found out that he was being cheated on and would just continue to live in eternal misery, all frustrated and alone, while Daniel fucked his new boy toy without a care in the world. He also maybe wants to mention that the part where Finns got up in that Go-Go cage was not all that terrible - in fact, it wasn't terrible at all. It was _brilliant_. Instead, he just nods and accepts his share in the blame - partly because he really did take Finns to the club, and partly because he doesn't want to make his friend feel any worse if he can avoid it.

Besides, if Finns doesn't murder him today, there will be plenty of time to bring that dance back up in the future. And he will, oh, he will...

"You're right," he finally speaks. "I'm sorry."

"What time is it?"

"Half past one," Stevie answers, consulting his watch.

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Lunch break. See how much I care about you? Didn't even have anything to eat yet, just came straight over."

"Can't say I'm grateful."

"You should be. I'm telling you you should be, so trust me."

"I need a shower."

"You definitely, definitely do," Stevie agrees.

With another grunt, as though bracing himself for courage, Finns throws his covers aside and starts to sit up in bed with the speed of a 90-year old with a severe case of arthritis. The only thing is, he's completely naked, and it probably takes Stevie a second longer than necessary to stop noticing that fact and turn his face to the opposite side.

" _Finns_! Naked much?" he scolds.

"Think twice next time you decide to use my key without consent." Finns speaks in-between little moans as he fights his muscles to get out of bed. Naked moaning Finns is just... Well, it brings back very inappropriate memories. 

"A little heads up would be enough."

"Well, this is my home, my bedroom and my hangover. I have more important things to worry about than not being naked in front of people I did not invite in. Besides, there's nothing here you haven't seen a million times before," he says, matter-of-factly.

"That was ages ago."

"Yeah, well. It hasn't changed." Finns finally pushes himself up and walks around the bed.

Stevie can't quite resist stealing a glance - just out of curiosity, no second intention at all. Xabi would understand (or so Stevie wants to believe). It's been years since he's last seen Finns stark naked. 

His friend is wrong, though. He has changed quite a bit. As he trudges his way to the bathroom, Stevie notices how broader his shoulders look now, his back muscles a lot more prominent. He used to be this scruffy kid when they first met and didn't change all that much during the years they spent together. Finns always had this natural elegance to him, but he barely had any muscles. His legs did benefit a lot from the years spent with the university football team - they still look just as great as Stevie remembers. He always had a thing for Finns' thighs - they were strong and thick and, unlike Stevie's own legs, barely had any hair on them. So soft and smooth, inviting you to touch and grab it. Finns never had a lot of body hair, not anywhere. Still doesn't, Stevie notices. Only now he doesn't look like a kid anymore. There are certainly a lot more muscles there than there were the last time Stevie saw him with no clothes on. It's been almost seven years since; so much has changed in their lives Stevie never really stopped to think about the physical part. 

Even as he stares at Finns' ass and thinks it looks very fine, there's no sexual undercurrent or desire at all there. It's not that Stevie is such a saint that he's incapable of lusting after people who aren't his husband - he does, of course, and so does Xabi. That's healthy. They'd have to be either dead or blind not to feel attracted to anyone else ever besides each other. He's never been with anyone else but Xabi since they met (well, besides Finns, in the very early days) and he still doesn't want to be. But he's only mortal, and still has a pair of eyes on his face. They each made a list once, of people they'd be allowed to sleep with if they were ever hit on by. There are rules, though: they can never be the one to start the contact, otherwise it's still cheating, and only celebrities are allowed in the list, no regular people like Finns or Sergio. People like Henry Cavill or Tom Brady. They're both on Stevie's list. Idris Elba is Xabi's number one, followed shortly by Matt Bomer. If Idris Elba hits on his husband - he's gonna get jealous, obviously, but it's Idris Elba, so, you know... What are you gonna do? 

Of course the chance of Idris Elba ever hitting on Xabi is very tiny, just as his shots with Tom Brody. Finns would be a different story. But Finns would never even get on Stevie's list, even if he was allowed to have ordinary people in there. Not anymore. 

Stevie still finds his friend ridiculously hot and he still keeps very vivid memories of fervent nights spent together some millenniums before, but it's different now. Finns has become something more than just a man to him. They're brothers. He's not the same person he was anymore, and neither is Finns. They've moved on from that time of their lives a long time ago. Stevie can't ever imagine touching Finns in a way that isn't absolutely innocent - even if he and Xabi were to break up and never see each other again (God forbid). They are just not that kind of people to each other anymore. It's the only way they can manage to look into each other's eyes and be as close and as open as they are with one another - the only way Stevie can watch his friend's naked march and not blush or feel guilty about it. There can never be a shred of want there again, or it will just not work.

However, it is kind of impossible not to wonder how a man like that ends up with someone like Daniel. Not that Daniel isn't a good looking guy - he's not for Stevie's taste, that's for certain, with all the tattoos and the weird hairdos - but there is something there to be appreciated. He's certainly come a long way since he walked into their lives, with that silly Mohawk and all the excessive eyeliner. But honestly - Stephen can do so much better. He's gorgeous, for fuck's sake. And that is not even the best part of him. Who in this goddamn world wouldn't want to have a shot with him? Even bloody Idris Elba would.

It's easy to understand the part where Finns is obviously crestfallen about his failed relationship. He did spend four years of his life making concessions and forgiving Daniel's bullshit in order to make it work. Of course he's going to get broody and depressed. What is harder to get is why he would even give that doomed romance four years to begin with. Why he took Daniel home that first night when he had the whole of Mercy to choose from. Stevie only had eyes for Xabi, but he's sure there were better options available than freaking Daniel. And then to go and get himself tangled in that asshole's shit, it's just... Really, it's incomprehensible.

Finns will talk about love and how you don't choose who you're going to fall for and all that crap. To a certain extent, he's absolutely right. Stevie never chose to fall for Xabi and had that been a decision to be actively made, he probably would've turned around and walked the other way - thus making the biggest mistake of his life, but he'd never know that, would he? Still, Daniel didn't fit into Finns' life as natural and fluidly the way Xabi had into his. Daniel _conquered_ his place. He had to fight Finns to stay, to _convince_ him. In no way does that make him worthy of his prize, in Stevie's opinion. It was so glaring obvious right from day one that it was a bad idea. Why would be pursue it?

Finns stops by the bathroom door to regain his balance before he finally disappears from sight. Breaking out of his thoughts, Stevie decides to do something nice for his friend. A last courtesy before he breaks the bad news. Finns is not going to get around to cleaning up the stinky mess that is room any time soon, not with the sort of hangover he's probably suffering from right now. So Stevie takes off his jacket and goes rummaging through Finns' stuff to find clean sheets and pillow cases. He changes everything, opens the windows and, once the room is looking decent and smelling nice again, he takes the dirty bed linen to the laundry basket. 

He just hopes Finns keeps it in mind that he is not such a terrible friend after all.

x-x-x

“So that was Cesc,” Nicklas says, an amused grin dancing on the corner of his lips as he puts his cell phone away.

“Oh,” Simon answers, not really interested, taking a seat on the edge of their bed. Crazy little Spaniard, that Cesc. Can’t decide whether he wants to live in London or in Barcelona, buts ends up spending most of his weekends in Liverpool anyway. Nicklas says Cesc claims ‘Liverpool is safe’, which really just means that it’s a place he can go to escape both his boyfriends - the one he keeps in London, Robin, and the one he keeps in Barcelona, Gerard. “How is he?” Simon asks anyway, just because he has a feeling Nick wants to say something and, well. He's in the mood to indulge his boyfriend.

“He’s great,” Nick answers, and then chuckles before adding, “And so is Martin.”

“Martin?”

“Yeah. Apparently he was getting it on last night at Mercy.”

“Is that supposed to be surprising or something?”

“In the DJ booth,” Nick continues. ”Right in front of everyone. I think that’s new even for Martin.”

“What, was he doing the DJ?”

“Oh yeah. You didn’t hear about his latest obsession. Ramos, the DJ. He hasn’t shut up about him.”

“Now that is astounding information,” Simon says, arching both his eyebrows at Nick. “You mean he hadn’t done Ramos yet?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Let me guess. Martin just woke up one day and decided he had to correct that terrible mistake.”

Nicklas nods. “Pretty much.”

“That sounds incredibly like him.”

As if on cue, they hear the front door bursting open. “OH. MY. GOD,” Martin screams from the top of his lungs. 

If Martin had been born in a different century, he would walk around carrying little men with trumpets to announce his arrival everywhere he went, Simon is sure. As a matter of fact, if someone suggests that to him right now, he might actually take the idea.

“Speaking of the devil…” Nicklas comments, grinning.

“He is like Beetlejuice, isn’t he? We speak his name one too many times and he just shows up. Out of nowhere.”

“Niiiiick!” Martin calls from the living room. “Are you asleep again? You lazy Dane, get up, will you? I have something important to say!”

“Wait,” Simon says, frowning at his boyfriend upon realizing that… “Did he just use a key?”

Nicklas takes a large gulp from his beer. “About that…”

“Nicklas!” Martin cuts him off again, stepping into the room without even knocking. “Where the fuck - Simon! I didn’t know you were back already!” he greets his friend with a broad smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Simon says, grinning shortly. “I didn’t know you had a key to my flat.”

“This? You can have it back.” Martin throws the key at him and walks around the bed to sit down on the other side, next to Nicklas.

Simon glares pointedly at his boyfriend as he replies. “Thank you. I guess.”

Nick looks away, but Martin just shrugs. “I was forced to get it.”

“Really?” Simon asks, none too convinced.

“Your beau here couldn’t even get out of his ass to answer the fucking door to me, so I had to get my own key, all right? It was a necessity.”

Nick rolls his eyes lazily. “The translation to that is that I’ve been sleeping during the day since I started working on night shifts, and Martin - who would’ve guessed? - has a gigantic patience for ringing a bell. He kept his fucking finger there until every neighbor was threatening to call the police. I had to give him a key or they’d kick us out of the building.”

Simon is not at all pleased to know that Martin Skrtel had, or maybe still has, a key to his flat. He’s the kind of person one should never trust with anything of value. But he can understand Nick’s dilemma. He really didn’t have a choice. “What’s so important that you had to do here?” he asks the Slovakian.

“Oh, you know… Things,” Martin answers, nonchalantly, waving a dismissive hand at him. “But how was Copenhagen? No, wait. Don’t answer. I have something more important to say first. You are never gonna guess what happened last night!” 

“You had sex,” Nick goes.

“Pff. When don’t I?”

“With Sergio Ramos, right in front of everyone.”

“Oh, yeah. That happened too. Wait, how do you know that?”

“Every gay man with a cell phone in this city knows about that already, Martin.”

“Not very keen on discretion, are you?” Simon adds.

“Some people are just born to shine, Simon. But we can go back to Sergio later. That’s not what I was going to say.”

“What could be more important to you than yourself?” Nick asks, genuinely curious.

Martin opens his mouth to talk but, as if suddenly remembering something, snaps it back shut. He stares pointedly at the two of them in that way Simon thinks makes him look like the kind of person who eats babies for breakfast. Martin can be very intimidating when he wants to. “Before I say anything else, I demand a pact,” he says, totally serious.

“What kind of pact?”

“Please tell me you’re not gonna start asking us to cut our hands and use blood to seal a deal,” Nick pleads.

“Jesus, Nick. What do you think this is, The Craft? No. I just want you two to promise that whatever I say will never leave this apartment.”

“Are you actually asking us to keep a secret?” Nick asks, confused creases on his brow.

“Are you dumb now, bitch?” 

“I’m worried. I think you might be having a stroke.”

“Funny, Nicklas. Have you been smoking that shit pot again? I think it’s killing your brain.”

“Martin,” Simon cuts in, curiosity creeping up on him. He cannot remember ever hearing Martin ask for anything to be kept a secret. It’s usually quite the opposite with him: the more you share, the better. This has to be a first, and therefore also a good. “What is it?”

“I didn’t hear anyone promising anything yet.”

“We promise,” Simon says, impatiently, motioning his hands for him to continue.

Martin points his index finger to Simon’s face. “If Dagger hears a word of what I’m about to tell you, I’ll cut you.”

“A secret that Daniel cannot be a part of?” Nick asks, his eyes sparkling with excitement now. “I’m _intrigued_.”

“We already promised, Martin. Go on.”

“Ok,” he starts, his features shifting back to an expression of pure contentment. “So. Last night _someone_ went up in the Go-Go cage at Mercy, half naked, and got it on with Sergio. And before you say anything, it was not me.”

Nicklas’ eyes widen in shock. “Son of a bitch! Daniel screwed Sergio in a goddamn Go-Go cage?!”

“Nope,” Martin shakes his head. “But he’s a clue.”

“Wasn’t Sergio supposed to be fucking you?” Simon asks, confused by the chronology of the events.

“He did. But that was afterwards. Someone prepped him up for me.”

“Who the fuck was it?” Nick demands.

The smile on Martin’s face becomes so impossibly large it nearly rips his cheeks apart. “Daniel’s bitch,” he says, with the same tone of pride that a father would have upon watching a child, say, taking their first steps.

Nick nearly chokes in shock. “Steve?!”

“Bingo!” Martin says, laughing.

“Wait a second,” Simon says, shifting a little to look straight at Martin. “Steve was at Mercy?”

“In a Go-Go cage?” Nick adds.

“With _Ramos_?”

“Oh, aren’t you two cute, finishing each other’s questions?” Martin rolls his eyes at them. “Let’s tone that down ‘cause I’m almost puking, yeah?”

Simon crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow at the Slovakian. “Why can’t we tell Daniel about this?”

“Oh, that’s not the part you can’t tell him. The part you can’t tell him is the part where I changed my mind about my never-shall-I-ever-fuck-Dan’s-bitch policy.”

“You changed your mind about that?” Nick asks.

“Hell yeah! Oh my God, you guys, you have _no idea_ how hot that was! It was unbelievable!”

Still lagging behind on the conversation, Simon shakes his head slowly. Yeah, ok, he’s never been close to Daniel’s boyfriend, they’ve only ever met a few times in the last four years - for very obvious reasons. If Simon were in Steve’s skin, he wouldn’t be too fond of Daniel’s friends either. But he knows enough to know that dancing in a Go-Go cage with someone like Ramos is very, _very_ out of character for Steve. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, in amidst Martin’s bright-eyed excitement. “It sounds like something _you_ would do.”

“I know!” the Slovakian agrees, chuckling. “I could’ve just kneeled between the two of them and waited for judgment day to come. You cannot even begin to imagine, Simon. I barely recognized him. Steve was all… hot and sweaty. God, I love a sweaty man. They lost their shirts and started dancing like there would be no tomorrow. You could see their dicks were hard from miles away! And by the way, that bitch's got some _chunk_. I always thought he looked like someone with a small cock. Although I also thought he would never have a six pack going on under his stupid shirt and tie - but there you go! He is seriously hot! And the two of them up there was one of the sexiest things I've ever seen in all my years at Mercy. I was shocked. _Shocked_! And very turned on as well."

Simon frowns. “I’m really having a hard time picturing that. Doesn’t strike me as something Steve would do.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

Simon rolls his eyes at Martin. “No, Martin, I’m just saying. It’s weird.”

“Yeah, it is fucking weird,” Martin agrees. “For a frigid bitch, I mean. But let me tell you. If I didn’t know he’s Daniel’s wife I would’ve had him join me and Sergio. Can’t get that thought out of my head. Ugh, I feel so disgusting!” Martin makes a grimace and shakes his arm like he’s trying to get a bug away.

“I’m sure Daniel would find the thought of you banging his boyfriend very disturbing as well,” Nick comments.

“Fuck disturbing. I’m worried about my reputation here. Which is exactly why you can _NEVER LET HIM KNOW_!” Martin screams at them, making that baby-eating face again.

“You should’ve kept your voice down then.” To Martin's absolute horror, Daniel opens the bathroom door and joins them, his face crumpled up in a grimace like he’s eaten rotten food. He gives them all a crossed look and bolts out.

Nick offers Martin an apologetic grin, but Simon just shrugs. The look of utter betrayal on the Slovakian’s face would be honestly gutting if his reasons for wanting to keep the story a secret from Daniel weren’t just so stupid.

“You… fucking traitors!” he shouts, giving Nick a less than friendly push. “Why didn’t you tell me he was in the bathroom, you assholes?!”

“I’m sorry, Martin. A secret that Daniel couldn’t hear about was just too good to pass,” Simon explains, simply. “I’m glad you told us, by the way.”

“Yeah…” Nicklas says, distractedly. He frowns and gets up from bed, following Daniel out of the room.

Simon gives Martin another little smile and chuckles when the Slovakian flips him the middle finger. “I curse the day you were born, Kjaer.”

“Sure you do.” With another shrug, he gets out of bed and joins his boyfriend in the living room. Daniel has thrown himself on the couch, feet up the center table, and is staring intently at the television, completely ignoring Nicklas.

“Why are you so calm?” Nick asks, studiously watching Daniel.

“Because he already knew, of course,” Martin says, joining them and sitting down on the opposite chair. Dan sends a death glare his way, to which Martin responds with his usual too-fabulous-to-give-a-fuck lip twist.

“You did?” Nick tries again, but Martin keeps going. 

“He was at Mercy last night,” the Slovakian starts. “With _blondie_. He saw the S &S show before he left.”

Simon stops in front of the television to maybe get some kind of reaction from his friend, but Daniel just hangs his head low and begins staring at his own lap now. “Why didn’t you tell us, Danny?” he questions as amiably as he possibly can. Right now Simon is extremely baffled by the amount of conflicting information Martin has offered, but anyone can see that this is affecting Daniel hard. 

Simon noticed there was something off about him the moment he arrived, all bugged and upset, before the sun was even up. Nick wasn't home from work yet and Simon was so tired from his trip to Denmark he didn't even bother making questions, just assumed Daniel had gone out to a party, gotten very high and didn't want to go home so Steve wouldn't find out. The truth, however... Is in a whole different level of fucked up.

With a deep sigh, Daniel finally decides to speak. “Because I was trying not to think about it. Thank you, Martin, you fucker.”

Martin makes a be-my-guest gesture with his arms.

“I’m kinda lost though,” Simon continues. “Did I miss something while I was gone?”

“Oh please, let me,” Martin speaks before anyone else has a chance. Simon notices the way Dan bites his own lip not to yell at their friend. “While you were gone, darling, Danny here got himself a new bitch. One of my personal picks, of course, although he tried to make me believe there was nothing going on. But the day Martin Skrtel gets it wrong is yet to be seen. They have been meeting at Mercy.”

Simon frowns reprovingly at Daniel, who drops his gaze again. “Is that true, Danny?”

“But that’s not everything, Si!” Martin ploughs on. “The plot thickens! Last night, the wife showed up at Mercy and I have it in very good authority that he saw the two lovebirds and decided to give him a pay back. And a glorious pay back it was!”

“Shut up, Martin,” Daniel snaps at his friend.

“Well, you could’ve spared them from my details if you had just told them what happened as soon as you got here, right? You knew I obviously wouldn’t miss the chance.”

“Yeah, but this has nothing to do with you, so shut up.”

“What, now that I’m almost done?”

“There’s more?” Nick asks.

“Oh yeah, baby. Daniel left hand in hand with the new bitch while the first lady went home all by herself.”

“Martin…” Daniel admonishes, voice threatening of violence.

“And I know that because as soon as the show was over, Sergio came looking for me, horny as fuck, and he said _Finns_ went home to have a good cry and probably a wank too.”

“For fuck’s sake, Martin! I swear to God I’m gonna hit you!” Daniel throws a pillow at him with so much strength it flies all the way to the other side of the room, hitting the wall with a bang.

Martin is a real jerk when he wants to, but if there’s any truth in what he’s saying - and judging by Daniel’s reaction, there’s _a lot_ \- then he’s not being unfair after all. Martin is merely twisting the knife a little deeper, but it seems to Simon Daniel has stabbed himself all on his own.

“Daniel,” Simon says, very serious. “How the hell did all that happen in less than a month?”

“It was Martin’s fault,” he says.

“My fault?! What did I do?!”

“You carried me to Mercy and then pushed me to Fernando, you asshole!”

“I did not!” Martin protests, all indignation. “I merely pointed out to you that there was someone checking you out. I said you _should_ fuck him, I didn’t make you do it. That was all you and your dick!”

“You should’ve fucking stopped me!” Dan yells back.

“Martin would’ve never stopped you, or anyone else for that matter, from getting laid, Danny,” Nick says, apologetically.

“So now you’re on his side too?! You know what he’s like!”

“I’m on no one’s side here. I’m just pointing it out something that is of common knowledge.”

“Thank you,” Martin says.

“Fuck you!” Daniel shouts back at Martin. “And fuck you too, Nicklas. Fuck all of you. I don’t need to sit here and get judged by the lot of you. I’m out.” Daniel stands up and storms out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

They all sit in silence for an awkward moment. “Stupid,” Martin breaks the ice. “Can’t stand it that his boyfriend rubbed it off on his face.”

“That’s not it, Martin,” Simon says.

“I know a butt hurt pout when I see one.”

“Yeah, so do I. I see one right now.” Martin opens his mouth for a piqued reply, but Simon shuts him by raising a palm up in the air. “I’ll go after him,” he announces. 

Daniel really is a bloody time bomb. Everything seemed to be pitch perfect, then he leaves for Denmark and less than a month later his friend has found a way to implode everything around him. Unbelievable! But Simon is used to that by now, and also to being the one to help pick him up and putting him back on the right track. Martin and Nick - and he loves Nick with all his heart - just don’t get that kind of stuff. They don’t get what Daniel has with Steve.

What Simon is having a hard time figuring out here is why Daniel would suddenly start seeing someone else? He was fine with Steve, hadn't been out shagging strangers in a while, and none of his previous hook-ups had even lasted for more than one night - except, of course, for Martin, but that was a different case altogether.

This one is just going to be a hell of a lot more complicated. If Simon knew the kinds of friends he'd have, he would've listened to his mother and gone for a degree in psychology, not arts.

x-x-x

Since Finns takes his time under the hot water, Stevie also makes coffee and sorts out a sandwich for himself - his stomach was starting to make really weird noises once he was calm enough to remember he was hungry. When Finns comes out, wearing clean clothes and looking half-decent, Stevie is waiting for him by the kitchen counter.

"Much better," he says as Finns drops down on one of the stools. "Now you almost look like a human being."

"Still don't feel like it," he murmurs, his wet hair sticking up and unruly.

"Here." Stevie pushes a glass of water, a pill and the coffee mug towards him. "Have some aspirin, drink the water and then the coffee to help you with the hangover."

"I'm not sure I can keep any of this down."

"You won't feel any better if you don't."

Exhaling, Finns takes the aspirin first, drinking half the glass at once. "Thanks," he says. "Did you clean my room?"

"Yup", Stevie replies with a proud smile. "No need to thank me."

"All right," Finns shrugs, taking another sip from the water. "I wasn't going to."

Although the color has returned to his cheeks, Finns' eyes still look haunted and, now that he's wide awake, he just seems... Dejected. Everything about him - from his droopy shoulders to the drawn-down curve of his lips - scream of some deep-rooted sadness. It makes Stevie want to pull him into a hug.

"Hey," he starts. "Are you ok?"

Stephen doesn't even look up at him, focusing on the glass of water instead. "What do you think?"

Stevie stops for a beat, considers what to say next and decides to try and humor Finns a little. "It's not all bad," he starts. "Benítez has given you the entire week off."

"A whole week?"

Stevie nods. "Told him you were coming down with something and he didn't even ask me what, just said you work too much and you should take some time off to recharge. Are you sucking him off, by any chance?"

Finns smiles shortly. "It sounds like I should be."

"You'd make VP in a year."

"Will definitely take that under consideration."

"Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to get a few days off to go to Spain with Xabi?"

"Can't help it if I'm irresistible."

Stevie's weak chuckles die fast. Finns shrinks back into himself, eyes wide and a little glassy, unfocused, jaw set, lost in his thoughts. He would probably not even notice if Stevie leaves right now. The Scouser wishes he had some mind control powers just to know what's going through Finns' head. It would make everything so much easier... He considers just jumping straight into the DANIEL HAS BEEN FUCKING FERNANDO FOR WEEKS subject - like this, in capital letters, no dancing around with bullshit, but... There's something stopping him. And by _something_ he means Xabi.

Xabi talked like it was none of Stevie's business that he had spoken to Daniel and agreed to keep his secret for some time - in Xabi's head, it was just between the two of them, it had absolutely nothing to do with his husband. How could he be so clueless? They've been together for almost seven years now. How is it possible that in all that time he still hasn't understood that if Finns hates him or vice versa, then that creates a problem for _all_ of them? 

Still, as mad as he is at his husband, as pissed off as he is at Daniel and as worried as he is about Finns' state of mind, Stevie still feels protective of Xabi. If he can avoid it, he doesn't want Finns to hate him. They are the two men of his life, each in their own way. He needs them to get along perfectly because fuck him if he'll know what to do if they don't.

Before diving into anything, he needs to figure out _how_ to deliver the news in a way that won't make it look as bad as it is. So he starts with something else first.

"What are you gonna do now?"

There's a five seconds delay between the question and Finns' answer, wrapped around a sigh. "I don't even know what day is today, Stevie."

"You haven't thought about it yet?" Stevie prods him. "You can't tell me you haven't thought about it."

"I literally just woke up."

"But you had all night."

"I was a little too worried about not vomiting all over the apartment to think." Finns is getting impatient, so he starts sipping from his coffee.

"What are you gonna do if he shows up?"

Finns stops, eyes fixed on Stevie's, very hard, very annoyed. For a second there Stevie thinks he's going to tell him to go fuck himself, but then he faces away again and goes back to his coffee. "I don't know."

"You don't have to deal with him if you don't want to. You could just change the locks. He'll get the message."

"I can't change the locks. He lives here."

"Because you let him. It's your place. Get his shit packed and sent to his studio and that will be it."

"You make it all sound so simple."

"Because it is that simple."

"No, it's not," Finns retorts with fire in his hoarse voice. "It's four years of my life. Unless you think four years I spent sharing everything, including my apartment for half of that time, with someone else doesn't mean anything, then there is definitely nothing short of complication here. I can't just ship him off like that and I can't talk to him either because I just - I _can't_. I'm sick, I have a fucked up hangover and I don't even remember everything that happened last night. I need to feel like a human being again before I make anything. And I'd very much appreciate it if you could respect that."

Stevie shuts his mouth and sits up straight like a little boy who was caught doing something naughty.

"I'm sorry," he starts. "I was just -"

"I know what you were _just_ ," Finns cuts him off. Stevie's persistence in talking about things that he obviously doesn't want to, have not only fully roused Finns but also brought his bad mood back, with a bang. "You hate Daniel and you can't understand why I don't, so you think you're being nothing but a good friend and talking sense to me right now. Guess what? I don't care what you think about him. I haven't cared for the past four years, in case you haven't noticed. _I_ like him. I _love_ him, and the fact I don't say this enough doesn't make it not true. And you're not being a good friend either, you're being an asshole. Nobody likes the guy who says _I told you so_. If that's who you want to be right now, then you can save your breath and leave me alone, 'cause I don't need that. No one likes the I-told-you-so-guy." Finns stops mid-rant, takes a breath, shakes his head. "Right now, I really need you to be my friend, Stevie. I'm fucked up. Can't you just show me some support?"

Well, fuck. Now _that_ is what feeling guilty really is like. Stevie pushes his stool closer to Finns and covers his hand with his own, squeezing it lightly. "I'm sorry," he says - and this time he really, _really_ means it. "You're right. I'm an arsehole. But I - I'm worried about you, Finns. And I hate to see you like that. Unfortunately, I've seen you like that more times than I can stand in the last few years."

Finns hangs his head low and doesn't say anything, doesn't move his hand way but doesn't squeeze Stevie's back either. He's just - lost.

Talking to Finns is a bit like fencing - advance and retreat, advance and retreat... In time of crisis, he can become unreachable, if he's in that sort of mood. You need to wait for the perfect moment to make a statement. Which just makes it all the more difficult to find the right way to tell him about Fernando.

Stevie considers not saying anything a billion times before taking a deep breath and saying, "I have something to tell you," all at once, sounding more like 'Ihavesomethingtotellyou'. It's not much, but it's a start.

"Whatever it is, it can wait." 

"It can't," Stevie says. "Actually. It's about Daniel."

"Didn't I just say -"

"No, Finns. This isn't an _opinion_. It's a... Fact. Something that happened. Is happening. I don't know. I just think you should... Know."

Finns eyes him quizzically. "What?"

Stevie takes a deep breath, eyes moving away from Finns for a second, down to his own hands as he pulls them back. "You said you saw Daniel with someone, right? At the club?"

Finns sits up straighter, a light frown between his eyebrows. It's like he's got a sixth sense about these things - it could literally be anything, but somewhere deep down, his friend _knows_ it will be something awful. And it just makes Stevie all the more nervous. 

"Yes?" the other man replies. "Why?"

"Was the person who was with him, by any chance - Fernando?" Finns is quiet for a moment, and Stevie figures he might not immediately remember who Fernando is, considering they've only ever seen each other once. So he ploughs on, "You know, Fernando, that writer Xabi introduced to was a while back? Who Sergio was all over?"

Finns mouth is pressed tightly together, like he's got a bad taste in his mouth. "Did you see them too?"

"No," Stevie shakes his head. "Xabi told me." And here comes the difficult part. It will hurt Finns twice - first because of Daniel, obviously, and then because of Xabi. Stevie feels like a man with an axe, holding it above Finns' head and about to let it fall in a grand final blow. "Last night was not the first night Daniel and Fernando... met," Stevie says, unable to look his friend in the eye. "They've been seeing each other for a while now."

Finns is quiet for a beat, and then, "How long is a while?" comes the simple question, Finns' tone still mild and calm. The way Finns is, his heart could be blowing up inside his chest right now into a million little pieces and his features would never betray a thing. Suddenly Stevie wishes that his friend were one of those people who can barely fit in their own skin when they're angry, that he'd just yell and throw things at him. It's louder and messier, but at least you get an idea of what you're really up against.

"I've been thinking about the time line. Xabi's party, where he introduced Fernando to us - remember you all called me crazy 'cause I said Daniel had been there but no one saw him? I wasn't crazy, obviously. He stopped by, but then he saw Fernando and he freaked out over the possibility of being caught, with the two of you being there. So he fled. I know they saw each other the day after that, but it started way before. I'm not sure when. Maybe... That one night you said he went to Mercy, when you were all grumpy at work? It could be. They met at the club."

Stevie's gaze finally meets Stephen's. He doesn't look sad, or angry, it's - something else entirely, something Stevie can't quite define. Probably worse than both. Again he catches himself wishing Finns would just throw the coffee mug at him or whatever. He's almost pushing it towards him, offering him the weapon the cause some actual damage and _show_ the amount of hard feelings he's harboring inwardly, when his friend starts talking again.

"How long have you known about this?" Finns asks and - well, he's already connecting the dots, isn't he?

"Twelve hours, give or take."

"Xabi?"

Stevie pauses. "A day. Maybe two. I'm not sure."

"Last night," Finns starts, choosing his words very carefully. "While we sat at that club, getting drunk because I was having relationship issues - Xabi sat right in front of me knowing that my boyfriend had been screwing someone else for weeks and... he didn't say anything?"

Stevie hesitates again. His first instinct is to say 'Fuck, no! Xabi would never do something like that!', but it is _exactly_ what Xabi did. Instead, he replies around a sigh, "Yes," and then adds "But it wasn't like that," as some sort of half-assed damage control.

"Why?" is all Finns demands. And it's the same thing Stevie had been asking himself all night. Xabi explained and explained and explained some more in the morning, during breakfast. Stevie pretended to sort of understand, but he didn't, not really. Only now the task to deliver the message - and then explain it - is his. It's so hard to make someone else believe in something you don't believe yourself. Especially if that someone can read into your soul like Finns and his bloody dark eyes.

"Xabi went to confront Daniel when Fernando told him. I don't know what they talked about, exactly, but... Daniel asked for some time." 

"Some time for what?"

"I don't know, to get his head out of his stupid arse," Stevie replies, annoyed. If it's at Daniel or at Xabi, he can't tell. Maybe both of them. It's so confusing, to be torn between sympathizing with Finns and feeling protective of Xabi at the same time. Stevie wants to stand up for his man and defend whatever stupid choice he made because he loves Xabi and will stand by him through fire and hell if needed. But this isn't just some random person he's facing here - it's Finns who's getting the stick at the end of that mess. And there is no easier way to get Stevie riled up than hurting his best friend. They have each other's backs, it's how it's always been. Acting differently simply feels like a betrayal - even for Xabi. Perhaps more exactly because of it.

"I don't know, Finns," he repeats. "I think he wanted to... Think."

"Why would Xabi go to Daniel first?"

"He thought Daniel should be the one to tell you," Stevie shrugs as though saying 'I don't get it either'. "And also Fernando. He wanted Daniel to know that he knew, so that he'd have to do something about it or Xabi would go ahead and tell you both himself. Fernando doesn't know anything either. He doesn't even know you exist. In Daniel's context, anyway."

Finns narrows his eyes to slits, his foggy brain slowly piecing the information together. "Xabi found out that Daniel was cheating on me and sat in front of me for an entire evening in possession of that information because, instead of telling _me_ , he decided to give _Daniel_ some time to _think_ about it?"

Stevie bites on his lower lip. It just sounds so much worse when it's someone else saying the words out loud, exactly as they're written in his head. It sounds like an offense, a terrible one - something criminal, even. And yet, it is exactly what happened, without the embellishments and whatever good intention Xabi had in his heart. Hell is full of good intentions, isn't it?

"I know it sounds bad, ok? But it's really not -"

"Isn't it?" Finns cuts him off, a cutting icy glare back on his face. "Because to me it just sounds like he gave my boyfriend some more time to cheat on me."

"No, Finns, of course not," Stevie protests. "That's not what happened at all. He told Daniel he wasn't supposed to -"

"What? Fuck someone else while he did his _thinking_? Did they have an agreement on it? What exactly was Daniel allowed to do, then? Maybe lips and hands only? I'm curious," Finns says, each word spat out coated in venom. 

Stephen - he's a nice guy. He has his faults, yes, Stevie recognizes that; not everybody is going to take an immediate liking to him. Finns can be snobbish and arrogant and distant, but he's still a good person. Kind and thoughtful and, mostly, understanding. Except he's also armed with an arsenal of hurtful and cruel rhetoric. And he's prepared to make full use of his skills whenever he feels harmed and cornered.

Stevie can't help but feel Finns is being slightly unfair here, but he can't exactly blame the man for his acrimony.

"I think I need you to leave," Finns says after a moment.

"What? No. Finns, we need to talk about this."

"I don't _need_ to do anything. _You_ , on the other hand, need to go. Right now."

"I didn't do anything!" Stevie retorts, a sort of desperate heat in his voice. "I came here and told you everything as soon as I could."

Finns fixes his hard gaze on Stevie in a manner that is just impossible to divert. "Would you still have told me if you didn't already know I was breaking up with Daniel? Or would you have tried to keep Xabi's deal with him and see how it would play out?"

Stevie has an indignant scream ready to come out, but it gets stuck in his throat and he has to swallow it back down. He drove to Finns' home decided on what was the right thing to do - tell him the whole truth and make sure he'd be kicking Daniel's ass. But as soon as he laid eyes on his friend, Stevie figured his resolve wasn't really that strong. His fear of hurting Finns' feelings and causing a rupture in his relationship with Xabi became too evident to be ignored. Up until the second he opened his mouth, Stevie wasn't sure he wouldn't back down. And the truth is - Finns is not completely right, because Stevie would never have just sat back and watched as the story played out by itself, but he really might've decided to take the path that would least incriminate his husband.

That is the down side of having a friend for over ten years who knows you so well. It's just useless trying to lie to them.

"You know," he starts after a beat. "I had a really ugly fight with my husband last night because of you."

"Oh, am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

"No, that's not -"

"Here's the thing, Steven," Finns interrupts him again. "I don't expect your loyalty to me to be greater than the loyalty you have to your husband. But I expected a lot more from people who have been my friends for years. From Daniel? Sure. I'm an idiot and he's a cheater. I'm not surprised that he did what he did. But you and Xabi?"

"Why do you keep saying _you_? I didn't do anything."

"Because he's your husband and you're defending and I'm fucking sick of that shit!" Finns is nearly shouting now. "I'm sick of having people finding true love and expecting me to be _understanding_. I don't know if I'm a jerk for being the person who stands in the way of love or if you people are the idiots who keep using that as an excuse to be arseholes! I'm tired of being treated like shit and having to conform!"

Half-way through Finns' speech, Stevie had already started to shake his head. "You're getting it all wrong. Nobody is asking you to conform. And you're not the person in the way of true love - where the fuck did you get that from?"

"You," Finns says. "And Xabi. Or are you going to tell me that the reason why he gave time to Daniel wasn't because he thinks Daniel found the love of his life in Fernando the same way you found in him?"

“No. No, he just…” Stevie tries, albeit with a lot less conviction than he had just a minute ago. He's got no idea what he's supposed to say next, or even if there's anything at all that will soothe Finns' annoyance. This entire conversation is being a perfect reenactment of last night’s fight, only now he’s in his husband’s place while Finns is playing his role. And he is getting just as easily cornered as Xabi did. “He just doesn’t think we’re in a position to judge.”

"A position to judge cheating on me, you mean."

"Finns," Stevie says, simply, almost as a plea. 

"He expected Daniel to pick Fernando, didn't he? Xabi must have thought that if Daniel would try to salvage his relationship with one of us, it would be him. So he didn't say anything because if he had, then me finding out would obviously make Daniel come out really bad and perhaps his guilt would keep him from going after his one true love. Xabi promised to keep quiet and let Daniel guarantee Fernando first, before breaking up with me. So I'd get dumped and they'd get their love story. Just like the two of you, all those years ago." There's a smile on Finns' face that is as ironic as it is broken. Finns is too good a lawyer for his own benefit. He figured absolutely everything out, even the things Stevie couldn't completely fathom about why his husband would let Dan go with just a warning instead of instating a war against him. 

"I don't - I... I don't know, Finns. I wasn't there, I don't know what they walked about. All I know is Xabi didn't want to hurt you - or Fernando. He didn't mean any harm."

"I guess that makes it all right, then."

Stevie opens his mouth to reply, but realizes he doesn't know what. There's so much harshness in Finns' eyes right now it's hard to even know where to begin cracking that nut. He's as furious as Stevie thought he would be - only it is so much worse in real life than it was in his head. He doesn't know what to do, what not to do; he should probably say he's absolutely right and that Xabi fucked up big time, but he cannot do it. Can't be so clearly against the man he loves, even if he was wrong. Whatever issues he has with Xabi, he'll be taking it home and they'll be solving it together, as a couple. Not here, just to win back Finns' trust.

It's a deliberate decision, this - picking sides even though he's not really doing it. Still, it doesn't make him feel any better. There's just no way to win here. Not for him, anyway, and definitely not for Finns either. Cheated by his boyfriend and betrayed by his two best friends. Talk about a royal fuck up.

"I'm sorry," he offers, when everything else fails.

"Just go."

"Finns -"

" _Go_ ," he repeats, louder and more emphatic this time, his fingers closing around the coffee mug with such strength Stevie notices his knuckles start turning white. He might actually start throwing things now. "I can't deal with you and Daniel all at once. It's either you or him, and right now he gets to be priority. So get out of my apartment and leave me alone."

Head hanging low, shoulders droopy, Stevie nods. There isn't really anything to do. If he insists, he's just going to provoke even more ire in Finns. He doesn't look like someone who should be left alone - hell, he just _asked_ Stevie to act like his friend a minute ago. He needs someone. Only that bridge has been burned right now, at least for a while, and if he stays, he'll only make sure Finns hatred for him lasts even longer.

There really isn't much of a choice here.

"Just... Give me a call if you need anything, ok? I know you're mad, but - I worry about you, Finns. I'm still your friend. I promise I will act like I don't even exist, I will be fucking invisible if you don't want to look at my face, but if you need _anything_ , anything at all... Just call."

Finns doesn't even look at him. "Get out," he says once more, lower this time, already getting lost in thought.

As Stevie rides down the elevator he can't help but feel like his afternoon has just beaten he rest of his day as The Worst Part Ever.

x-x-x

“So? You’re an artist, I could’ve helped. Besides, I needed to breathe some fresh air, didn’t I?”

“I’d say Denmark is hardly fresh air for you.”

“Fuck you, Simon! This is your fault as much as anyone else’s!”

“My fault?” Simon doesn’t seem at all rattled by the accusation. If anything, he looks amused. “How was I supposed to know that you were about to start losing your head? I actually thought you were getting better.”

“Is that why you lost the last thirty minutes of your life chasing after me? Because you want to have the pleasure of judging me to my face?”

“I’m not judging you, Dan.”

“Like shit you aren’t! I know you, Kjaer, I can see it all over your face! That little stupid crease of disappointment on your blond fucking forehead. You have judgment all over you. That’s your fucking middle name. You’re Simon I’m-Fucking-Judging-The-Shit-Out-Of-You Kjaer. Because you’re so perfect, aren’t you? You never fuck up, you never cheat, you don’t know what it’s like to be the bad guy. And you know what? Fuck you! Fuck you and fuck Martin who started this whole shit and fuck Nick, who didn’t tell me to stop! It should’ve been you giving that same judgment face before I went out there and screwed it all up! But you buggered off and all I had was Nick and Nick is a fucking moron! Now my life is ruined thanks to you and your boyfriend and that bald lunatic we picked up from the street God knows why! I don’t need your fucking judgment now ‘cause I am fucking judging myself!”

It’s only when he stops talking that Daniel realizes he had been shouting. Screaming, really. Like really, really loud. Right to Simon’s face. He’s also been salivating like a madman and he probably just spat all over Simon’s face as he yelled at him, but he’s so shocked he hasn’t even blinked. 

“Are you all right, my son?” a tiny lady says, touching his arm in a manner that he’s sure is meant to be soothing. It’s just then that Daniel notices that people have actually stopped and gathered around and they’re all staring, worriedly, at him. Some of them are holding their cell phones up, certainly waiting for fists to start flying around.

“Shit,” he says, and the woman looks scandalized. “I’m sorry. Ma’am. I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

“Everything good here?” a policeman, attracted by the sudden gathering, asks.

Daniel presses his eyes shut for two seconds hoping a hole would open right under his feet and just swallow him down to the center of the fucking Earth. Now that would put an end to his misery. And Steve’s. And Fernando’s. And God knows how many more people.

“It’s all right, officer,” Simon answers for him, gently, with that sweet, tender Baby Spice-like smile he’s got. Simon always says that the reason he started getting tattooed was to break some of that angelic aura created by the naturally bright blond hair and the blue eyes and the good boy’s face. But it only works when people can actually see his tattoos. Right now, with his arms covered, it just looks like Daniel has been yelling at the sweetest human being on Earth.

“All right, lads. Why don’t you take this somewhere else, yeah?” the officer says.

“Sure. Sorry about that.” Simon turns to him then. “Let’s take it somewhere else, lad.”

With embarrassment suddenly topping anger, Daniel doesn’t even react as Simon takes his arm and starts pulling him away. After the outburst, the Dane is suddenly washed over by a sense of complete dejection. He’s been gloomy all morning, brooding over his own sins since he left Steve's apartment. He couldn't stay there, couldn't just lie down and sleep it off on the couch like nothing happened. He felt terrible, dirty, the greatest scumbag of scumbags. But now… Now it’s like it has all come crashing down at once. Putting it out has made it worse, somehow. Or rather, has given his feeling the weight of reality. That’s how bad he should’ve been feeling about the entire situation since the beginning, since he fucked Fernando for that first time, in that dirty bathroom stall. 

“Hey,” Simon says, pushing him to sit down on a bench. Daniel didn’t even realize they’d made it to the docks. “Do you feel better now?”

“No,” Daniel answers, looking down at his own hands. “I feel worse. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“It’s ok.” Simon takes a seat next to him, looking out at the dark river waters. “I had it coming. For buggering off and leaving you in the hands of two incompetents. Well, one incompetent and one masochist.”

Daniel has that inner urge to offer his friend a smile, but it’s such a weak feeling it doesn’t actually make it all the way to his face.

“God, you look terrible,” Simon says. “I mean, I noticed you looked bad but I thought you were ill or drunk.”

“I am ill. Being too dumb actually physically hurts. It’s pathological.”

“Do you want to tell me your version of the facts?”

Dan takes a deep, shuddering breath and waits until an old couple has walked by them. The woman notices him staring and offers him a sympathy grin. Dan doesn’t respond.

He recalls having once thought that maybe he would grow old next to Steve. It was just a flimsy thought that didn’t even last for too long, if anything because Daniel wasn’t ready to think of himself as an old person. He still had too much life ahead of him to start making plans for his old age. But at some point in his life it had felt like that was the right path to follow. Back when Steve gave him an ultimatum and he decided to start behaving and acting like the proper good boyfriend Steve deserved. He remembers that conversation only too well. It was right after another one of his fuck-ups and he was feeling guilty as hell, but Steve was having none of his bullshit anymore. It was either settling down or moving on.

Daniel spent an entire afternoon imagining himself with Steve then and realized that the thought of never seeing him again actually scared him. Gave him a strange cold at the pit of his stomach. That was when he knew that he had to become a better man for Steve. It was also when he thought they’d be growing old together into one of those cute, wrinkled couples who leave their homes every morning for a walk around the docks.

That all feels like such a long time ago…

“I fucked up again, what else do you need to know?” he says, simply.

“What about this Fernando guy?” Daniel swallows down hard at the mention of his name. Fernando still has no idea of what’s going on. He thinks he’s getting involved with a nice, funny and smart lad who also happens to be sexy and creative and ridiculously good in bed and aside from the fact he really is a little devil when it comes to sex, he’s pretty much wrong about everything else.

Daniel is a farce. A big, fat, stinky farce and Fernando is just another one of his victims. He’s trumped all over Steve for the past four years and now he’s about to start doing it all over again to someone he barely met.

Dan feels… dreadful. Awful. Disgracefully sick to think he’s messing with Fernando. He’s going to get hurt too. Daniel’s got an impressive shiny collection of screw-up trophies, but the one he’s about to pick up has got to be special. Two men in one strike. Congratulations, asshole.

“I think… I think I’m in love with him,” he says, and the words roll out of his tongue like sharp knives. Dan sees out of the corner of his eye as Simon turns to him with that shocked expression. “It’s not his fault, though. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know I’m spoiled.”

“Wait… Roll back. Did you say _love_?” Dan hesitates but nods eventually. “In the short span I’ve been out, you met someone, started an affair and now you’re _in love_ with him?”

“Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“It sounds like it moved really fast.”

“Yeah.” Dan pauses. “He’s not like the others. I don’t know what’s different about him, but there’s something. From day one I can’t seem to get him out of my head for one bloody minute. I’ve tried, Simon, I swear I did. I promised I’d never see him again, I said to myself that I wouldn’t call him or show up at Mercy or anything. I didn’t want things to happen the way they did, I wasn’t even looking for anyone! I just wanted to distract myself, you know? It was Steve’s idea that I should go out a little more.”

“Wow. You must’ve been a fucking pain in the ass for Steve to want you out.”

Daniel glares, but softens the look after moment because that is actually pretty much true.

“Fernando just hit me like a motherfucking train and I don’t even know where he came from. I tried getting back to my normal life but… Everything was different. I felt like I couldn’t even look Steve in the eye anymore because it was so obvious that I had feelings for someone else and I was gonna hurt him and I didn’t want to hurt him! Even when I decided to stay the fuck away from Fernando, I barely went back home, just stayed at the studio. I thought it was gonna go away. Eventually. One day.”

“So what happened?”

Dan lets out a mirthless laughter. “Can you believe he’s a friend of Xabi’s?”

“Xabi? You mean that psycho’s husband?”

Daniel nods. “Apparently they work together. Fernando is a writer and Xabi is an editor. He came to Liverpool so that they could work together.”

“You really have a penchant for royal screw-ups, don’t you, Danny? From all the queers in this city, you had to go and fuck someone who happens to be close to the guy who wishes for nothing else in his life but an opportunity to give you a good beating up.”

“Stevie hasn’t done anything. Yet.”

“But I’m thinking that’s not going to end very well.”

“It ends with me sitting on this bench thinking how fast I’ll die if I tie a rock to my foot and throw myself in the river.”

There’s a pause then, a lengthy one. Simon is staring out at the river, arms crossed over his chest, teeth worrying the inside of his lips, and for a moment there it doesn’t seem like there’s nothing else either one of them can say. As matter of fact, Dan has been feeling like that a lot lately. As if he should just shut up for the rest of his life, like those monks who take silence vows and go on for years without uttering a single word. Apparently that’s supposed to teach them something important about humbleness and the value of listening and to get them in touch with their inner self or some crap like that. To Daniel, it would be an exercise of self-respect. Every time he opens his mouth, the wrong thing comes out. Lately, lying is all there is. He lies to Steve, he lies to Fernando and then he makes up excuses to everyone else.

If Daniel could learn how to shut up for a second, then maybe he’d learn a thing or two as well about how to not screw up his own life. And he could really start right now, because really, he’s reached a point where he doesn’t even know what to say. He is in love with Fernando but he still loves Steve, whom he’s hurt in more ways than it is possible to keep tabs on. Daniel doesn’t have any mitigating factors in his own defense to offer. So it’s better if he just keeps it at that and let other people do the talking. Whatever they say, however dreadful, it will most likely be true anyway.

But if he is to start listening more to what others have to say instead of always taking shelter behind the same old lame excuses, then it should start with Simon.

Daniel knows him well enough to know exactly what’s going on through his deep, thoughtful blue eyes right now. Still. He needs to hear him say it.

“Go on, then,” he speaks around a wounded sigh, facing away from the other man as though preparing to receive a blow to the head.

“Go on what?”

“I know you want to slam me, Simon. Just do it.”

“Who says I want to slam you?”

“Isn’t that what you always do?”

“I can’t slam you for falling for someone else. If that’s really what happened, anyway.” Daniel frowns awkwardly at Simon, who shrugs. “What?”

“You’re not against me?”

“I’m never against you.”

“You’re _always_ against me, Simon.”

“You say I’m always against you when I point out to you all your misdemeanors but then you yell at me for not being here to tell you you were about to do something stupid.”

“Don’t argue with my nonsense, Simon, that’s not what this is about.”

“I don’t want to slam you, Dan.”

“Just say whatever the fuck is really on your mind right now.”

Simon exhales in frustration. “What do you want me to say? That I think you’re an idiot? Because I do. You’re a sweet idiot, but still an idiot. Or do you want me to say that I like Steve and don’t think he deserves what you're doing to him? That’s also true. We were never close, but he seems like a genuinely nice man.”

“He is.”

“Too nice for you, I think.”

“Fuck off.”

“You wanted me to be honest with you, right? Here’s honesty.” Simon shifts on the bench so that he’s straddling it now, one leg to each side and eyes aiming straight at Daniel’s. “I firmly believe that you shouldn’t put yourself in a monogamous relationship if you can’t handle it. I turned Nicklas down for years because I didn’t think he was ready and I don’t want to have a boyfriend who’s always going to keep a longing stare at beyond the fence thinking how much greener the grass is on the other side.”

“But that’s not -”

“Oh, but it is,” Simon cuts him off before Dan can even make an argument for himself. “It’s not just about this one time, it’s about all the other times you’ve gone out ‘not looking for it’,” Simon adds the quotation marks with his fingers, “and ended up in someone else’s bed. Sometime Nick’s, sometimes Martin’s, sometimes someone else entirely. This time was no different, Danny.”

“You weren’t even there!”

“That’s completely beside the point. And I know you’re going to say you behaved yourself for two years. You keep repeating that like you want a bloody golden star for your achievement, but that should be as natural as breathing when you commit yourself to someone, Daniel, not a feat worthy of praise. You know what it sounds like? Like you’re an alcoholic or a junkie or on weight watchers, not that you have a boyfriend who happens to be a great guy. Hi, my name’s Daniel Agger and I haven’t shagged anyone but my incredibly loyal partner who gives me everything I want for two years. You can’t honestly expect a standing ovation for that.”

Daniel opens his mouth to protest but shuts it back up with an audible snap. Simon gives him a look that says ‘I know I’m right’. Daniel looks away.

“I think Steve is a wonderful thing that happened to you. I have no idea _how_ , because you two couldn’t be any more different, but it did, and I’m glad. I know he hates all your friends, but let’s be honest, he’s a sane man, of course he’s going to hate us lot. We’re bonkers. And Martin is… Whatever Martin is. Considering you’ve cheated on him with 2/3 of your friends, then I’d say he’s absolutely right not to like us. But he never asked you to leave us, did he?”

“ … No,” Daniel mutters, shyly.

“Because he’s a good man, Daniel, and he was trying to make you happy. If he failed, that’s not his fault.”

“He didn’t fail. I was happy! Am. Was. Shit. I don’t know anymore. I’m not happy _right now_ , but I’m… Happy. With Steve, I mean. We were happy. Before all this. Or I didn’t realize that my unhappiness was because of him, I thought it was totally unrelated. I never blamed him for anything.”

“And you shouldn’t. He stood by you even when you were a pain in his ass. You should never blame him. I think he’s a good man and I think he was good to you. He made you a better person, Danny. And I mean that in the best possible way. He showed you a side of life that we could never show you. He met you as a totally reckless boy just out of your teens and he turned you into a man.”

Daniel watches him quietly for a moment, unsure whether to start crying or to hit Simon. “Jesus… When I said be honest, I didn’t mean take the little dignity I still have and shove it up my ass.”

“Danny,” Simon says, his voice carrying a serious timber.

“What?”

“You should talk to him.”

“You make it sound like it’s easy.”

“It is. Just go to him and tell the truth. He’s probably going to hate you anyway, but it’s the least he deserves.”

“No, it’s not. The least he deserves is that I had never fucked Fernando in the first place, or that I had come clean to him straight away. That’s the least. Being honest now doesn’t make a fucking difference. I wouldn’t even know what to say. Telling him I screwed up and then begging for forgiveness is one thing. Telling him I screwed up but I’m not sure I regret it is another. And that’s going to fucking hurt him and I can’t do it.” He stops. "Besides... He already knows everything there is to know."

"Of course he does. He saw the two of you. But it's one thing to see you making out with someone and another to hear the full story."

"No, I mean - I've spoken to him. Sort of."

Simon frowns. "When?"

"Last night."

Simon stops, thinking for a moment. "Martin said you left the club with Fernando."

"I did. But I didn't stay with him. I..." Daniel considers telling Simon the full version of his sad tale - including the part where he fled Fernando's place after a failed attempt at sex. He's sure he'll share everything at some point, but that point is frankly not going to be now. He's not ready to do it yet. He can't even be completely honest with his most understanding and forgiving friend, how will he ever grow a pair and talk to Fernando and Steve? "I went home, afterwards. I snapped, or something. So I left. And Steve was home. I didn't think he would be. Last time I saw him he was kissing Sergio up in that Go-Go cage, I thought... Never mind what I thought. He was there."

"So?" Simon prods, anxiously.

Dan takes a small breath, looks away from him. "He was really drunk. I mean - _really_ drunk. I figured he'd be at least hammered, considering what had happened. He was... Totally wasted. And he was still drinking. I didn't really know what to do, you know? It felt wrong to try and talk to him while he was like that, but it would be even worse not to say anything and patronize just because he was... Not in his best senses. So I tried to apologize."

"And...?"

"... And he was having none of it."

"Well." Simon shrugs. "Comprehensive."

"Yeah... But that's... Not even the worst part."

"I'm afraid to ask."

Daniel scratches he back of his neck, gets that bubbling feeling at the pit of his stomach again as the memories of the night before spring back to mind. "We had sex."

Simon is quiet for a long time before finally saying, "You - what?!" practically screaming in Daniel's face.

He just nods. "Don't ask me."

"What do you - _How_?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I guess he got really horny from all that dry humping and needed someone to get him off. He told me to shut up a billion times and then said all he wanted from me was my cock."

"And you... gave it to him?"

"Not willingly."

The creases in Simon's brow deepen further, like he's trying to read some really tiny letters a mile off. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't want to do it, obviously. I felt terrible. Like I was taking advantage of a drunk man who had no fucking clue what he was doing. Except... Steve _never_ doesn't have a clue of what he's doing. He might do crazy stuff, but he _knows_ he's doing crazy stuff. I tried to push him away as gently as I could, but he started saying a bunch of stuff about me not thinking he was good enough anymore or that he was too old and I just... I was afraid I'd hurt his feelings if I denied him. He'd feel... Rejected. On top of everything else. So I just... Let him. He did almost everything, I just stayed there."

Coming to think of it now, of course Steve was manipulating him. He said the things he said because he knew Daniel would feel terrible and do exactly as he wanted to try and placate his torment. Not that he wouldn't have been pissed if he'd been turned down, but saying yes didn't exactly count him many plus points either, probably. When Steve uses his sharp mind for the evil, he's just impossible to stop.

"Oh my God," Simon lets out after a few long seconds of shock. "How... How did things even... I mean, could you even get it up?"

Daniel almost lets out a sound that is neither a laugh nor a sob, but something in-between, at the irony of that. If only Simon knew... "Amazing, isn't it? Steve just knows how to get me going."

"That's just... Awful, Daniel."

"You don't think I know?"

"What does it mean? Is he not that angry, then? Is he going to forgive you again?"

"The fuck I know. As soon as he was satisfied, he just got up and went to bed, making sure to slam the door behind him so I'd get the message I wasn't supposed to foll. I just couldn't stay there. Couldn't sleep, couldn't - Do anything, really. So I got dressed and went to yours."

"Shit," Simon says.

"Yeah..." he replies, because suddenly there doesn't seem to be much more to add. Daniel doesn't even know what to think at this point. Will Steve want to _talk_ , as in, try to solve things? Is he expecting Daniel to beg for forgiveness? It would be hard enough to face him after being busted, but to face him after _that_? The Dane doesn't know if he's got enough courage to do it, not completely sober anyway, and he reckons that's a conversation that will demand his full temperance. He doesn't want to stay together with Steve, but he wishes there was a way for them to have as much of a clear break as possible. Only at this point that just seems like a very distant reality.

Simon stretches out his arms to touch Dan’s face, cupping his cheeks with his palms and making a soft caress with the tip of his thumbs.

“You are a fucking disaster when it comes to relationships, honey,” Simons speaks, softly. “But I don't think you can control everything. Not all the time. You can control whether or not you’re going to cheat on him, regardless of the situation, but you can’t control if you’re going to fall for someone else. Whatever happened, happened. You can’t change that. But even with all that mess... You should give him the chance to yell at you, throw all the things he’s done for you back at your face, humiliate you, make you feel like the worst piece of shit in this world -”

“Fuck you, Simon.” Daniel pushes his hands away. “I get it, all right? You don’t have to be so fucking detailed.”

“Give him the chance to be mad.”

“I just… I don’t want him to hate me.”

“That’s something else that is out of your control. And the longer you take to own up to what you’ve done, the worse it will be when you finally do.”

Daniel feels a vertiginous shudder at the pit of his stomach. Simon is right, though. Goddamned Simon is always right. Steve deserves the chance to be mad at him, to hate him and point out to his face all the one hundred and one ways in which he has been the worst case of waste of time in history. 

Dan only wishes he could come up with the right words. The perfect way of telling Steve things without making him think that he has never been loved, or that everything they’ve been through together was a lie. He loves Steve and that’s the only thing he doesn’t want the other man to doubt, ever. Steve deserves to know that he has been loved, even if in a very twisted way, by an incredibly stupid boy. 

“I hate it when you’re right,” he murmurs after a while.

Simon smiles. “I’m always right.”

“Yeah, that’s why I hate it.”

“So,” Simon says around a sigh, placing one arm around Daniel’s shoulder and pulling him closer, into a half hug. Daniel pretends he doesn’t like it, but cuddles up to Simon like a little puppy. This feels nice, he thinks. Maybe he can just stay here instead of going home or anywhere else. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened last night?”

“Martin already did.”

“I wanna hear your version.”

“His version is the real version, but he tells the story with spite, which is quite appropriate, actually. It really was that awful.”

“You have got to be really down if you’re starting to agree with the way Martin tells stories.”

“I deserve to have my story told by Martin, that’s how sad I am.”

“Why don’t you try me and then I’ll let you know where the real story stands in a scale from you to Martin.”

“That’s some fucked up scale. There’s no good side.”

“It’s a terrible story, Danny, what did you expect?”

Daniel leans his head against Simon’s shoulder and, after a deep breath, starts narrating all the events of the night before to his friend. Unlike many things in life, saying this out loud doesn’t make him feel any better, quite the opposite; it shines a new dreary light over everything and only makes his heart weight even heavier in his chest. But it will, at the very, tiny least, buy him some time before the storm.

That’s good enough for now.


	14. Another one bites the dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing this bit was a little bit tricky. I realize this part of the story is very important, but I almost cut the whole thing out. Decided to leave it like this at last, hope I made the right choice. I was going to give the last chapter at least another week to see if maybe it did a bit better, had a feeling people didn't really like it. I hope this one does better.
> 
> As always, I really appreciate your feedback, if you feel like giving it. :) I love reading your reactions, that's the stuff I thrive on. So please, don't hesitate! Please forgive me for all the mistakes you will likely find throughout the story!

Finns thinks he’s probably still a little bit drunk. At least half drunk. The other half’s got a nasty hangover. It’s a very confusing mental state, he’ll give you that. Like having two minds thinking the exact opposite thing inside your head at the same time.

One side of him wants to go back to bed, hide under the covers and not come out until the only beings left in the universe are him and cockroaches. The other side is feeling more outgoing, only in a sort of murderous and revengeful manner.

For the past hour or so, Finns has been trying to connect the dots on the downfall of his life. So maybe the signals have been lurking around for a while now, but it still seems that a few weeks is a too short span of time for everything to have gone spiraling out of control the way it did. Going from being a reasonably-happy-in-a-relationship man to a single-drunkard-who-makes-out-with-people-in-Go-Go-cages… It’s really hard to figure it out.

That Fernando guy came out of nowhere like a beast of the apocalypse, announcing the end of life as Finns knew it. One day Daniel was there and everything was fine; the next he’s bidding his goodbyes and riding into the sunset with a different prince charming. Finns' life was suddenly hit by a natural phenomenon that affected all that surrounds him and changed the very essence of all his relationships. With his partner, with his best friend, with his best friend’s husband, with his best friend’s husband’s oldest pal, with his secretary, with his boss… It goes on. Everything was shaken up and turned upside down. Like his very own human-shaped _El Niño_. Now that would be a good nickname for that kid.

After Stevie leaves and Finns gets fed up with pacing around the flat, he takes his car and starts driving like a manic around the city. He's not exactly sure where he's going; maybe nowhere. Driving is something he does sometimes, to de-stress. It's not uncommon for him to get the car and just drive for hours when he’s really annoyed - like, for instance, after really bad fights with Daniel. It’s happened quite a few times in the last four years, especially in the beginning.

Finns still remembers the last time he did it, actually. It was a while ago, a long while ago, in fact, but it was also a major defining moment. He got a call from Sergio in the middle of the night asking if he could _please_ go pick Daniel up from the club. _"He's going to get really fucked up in a minute if he doesn't stop hitting on guys in front of their boyfriends here,"_ Sergio said, _"And he's running the bar dry”_.

That wasn't the first call of such nature he received from Sergio, so it honestly didn't even surprise him. At that point, it had just become exhausting. Finns had frankly had enough, but he went anyway, because Sergio was his friend and Daniel was obviously getting on his nerves. He was sick of acting like Dan's mother, though, so he didn't go inside. Instead, he just parked in front of the club, told Sergio to get him kicked out and waited. Daniel showed up not too long afterwards with some guy's tongue shoved down his throat, drunkenly fighting to stay up, walk and make out at the same time. They were probably heading to the alley next to Mercy, the one that led to the backdoor entrance. Finns knew that because he was guilty of making use of the alley himself back in the old day. Before he could get there with his boy, however, Daniel spotted him standing by the car.

It's a bit of a paradox that one of their most epic fights was barely a fight at all, actually. Inwardly, Finns was in a riot. But he never said a word to Daniel as he drove him to his place, never even looked him in the eye. Daniel didn't shut up for one second, but if someone had asked Steve one minute later to repeat what he'd just said, he wouldn't know. Didn't even listen. All he knows from that ride is that Daniel smelled so strongly of alcohol that he remembers thinking that if he struck a match in there he would've probably caught fire. Daniel also smelled like sex, and that is probably the part Finns remembers the most.

He practically pushed Daniel out of the car when they got to his studio, then also his apartment, and drove off.

That night, he had so much burning up inside that he didn’t stop until he got to Manchester, where he ended up getting a thorough fuck at the penthouse of stranger he picked up a bar. To this day, Finns can't tell what he was really thinking when he got back home and decided to give Daniel another chance - as long as they moved in together and Daniel promised he'd never, ever act like a bloody cunt again. It's an even bigger mystery why Daniel said yes, coming to think of it. But he did, and they moved in, and for two years Finns never thought back about that stranger at the Manchester bar and the silly reasoning behind asking Dan to live with him.

He thought - how naive of him - that if Daniel was right there, under his roof, then he’d get to keep an eye on him; that being closer would force Daniel to be more responsible and act like an adult. And the worst part is that, for two whole years, Finns believed it had worked out. Daniel quit the late night crazy partying, started behaving and wasn’t cheating on him anymore. Now he wonders if Fernando was even the first one in all this time, or if that just happened to be the first time Dan got caught. Moreover, Finns wonders if he wasn’t just turning a blind eye on the truth all the while; maybe nothing was ever really better in those two years, he just wasn’t seeing the whole picture. His happiness was a lie.

In hindsight, asking Daniel to move in with him was probably the stupidest idea he ever had. Daniel likely never even truly wanted to do it, just said yes out of a half-hearted attempt to apologize. He's as predictable as water being flushed down the toilet, to be honest, particularly after screwing up. Finns knew he'd say yes, just as he knew what to say to get Daniel to fuck him the night before. He should've known better, though. Things between them should’ve ended that night, after the Manchester guy. It would’ve hurt less.

Finns thinks about going to Manchester again, picking up another stranger at a random bar and maybe getting that feeling of not having gone wrong yet, of going back in time and fixing what he should've fixed two years before.

He ends up at Daniel's studio instead.

Finns moves from one side to the other, minutely inspecting every single one of the paintings spread around the studio. It’s been ages since he last stepped inside this place. It’s kind of a sick pleasure - feeble and meaningless, yes, but one he can still appreciate, something so rare lately. He’ll take whatever he can get. He won’t lie; breaking the limits imposed by Daniel and intruding his work space to see his art before he’s allowed to for the first time ever does give him a slight sense of empowerment. It’s a metaphor for something bigger; he’s being deliberately audacious, purposefully mischievous and defiant. He only wishes Daniel could see him touching his precious canvases right now.

Actually, what he really wants to do is destroy every single one of them. That would teach Daniel a lesson on several things, the least important of which would be that he should lock his stupid door. To be honest, Finns is not even quite sure why he ended up here, but taking a brush and writing ‘WHORE’ or ‘I HATE YOU’ over the paintings was really not the reason. Not initially, anyway. But it does seem like it would feel _so_ good, though…

There’s an aura of surrealism surrounding the past 24 hours of Finns' life. Maybe it’s the fact he’s still a little confused, but he is finding it hard to believe things happened exactly as he remembers them. Hard and embarrassing. Suddenly Dan seems to be the only thing capable of shaping things into some sort of order. Not so surprisingly, however, Daniel isn’t here. That seems to be a theme as of late - wherever he is, Daniel isn't. Steve has no idea where he went after last night. Doesn't even know if he slept at home or if he left right after they finished their... Exorcism session (really, that was anything but sex). Maybe he went back to his beau’s place and is still enjoying morning sex right now.

Not that it is in Steve’s nature to always assume the worst, but at this point he’s really inclined to believe that is likely to be the right answer.

He can’t help but think of all the hours and days Daniel spent away from home as he looks at the paintings. Who would ever guessed that treachery would translate into art so beautifully? Daniel’s never painted anything even remotely close to this level of perfection in all the years they spent together. Hell, for the most part of it he could barely even hold a brush without throwing it angrily across the room. It only sinks the knife deeper to think that this is what love looks like. Real love.

The only thing keeping Steve from throwing everything out the window right now is his pride. Thank God that being good looking, wealthy and successful has built a large ego somewhere in there, right? He’s been accused of being _too_ proud before, but as of this moment he thinks his sense of self-respect and dignity is really the only thing keeping him from turning into one of those hateful, petty little exes. Cheated boyfriend instincts are starting to kick in, but he still thinks himself above those things. Stevie would say he’s better than all of this, but Stevie would also be the first one to launch into an attack of raging violence in a similar situation, so there’s really not much coherence in what he speaks. The only truth is that he’s a totally biased and extremely loyal best friend, except when he’s siding up with his husband, who, incidentally, is siding up with Daniel. That agitates the bubble of anger inside Steve all over again, but he cannot be thinking of Stevie and Xabi right now. He’ll end up getting an ulcer or something.

Be it truthful or not, the belief that he’s supposed to be the greater human being is what is keeping him in check. Losing his mind and destroying other people’s private properties doesn’t really suit his style. Some would say it’s _‘out of Steve Finnan’s character’_ , and he likes to think that’s a good thing. It means he’s a refined, reasonable man, and he’d like to keep it that way.

Daniel’s a piece of shit, he’s the better man. Just repeat that like a mantra until it sticks and it should be fine.

It’s easier thought than felt, though. Why doesn’t that train of thought connect to his heart at all? If anything, he’s just as much a piece of shit as Daniel, only one who can actually control his actions, which he’s not completely sure is exactly in his best interest. He would feel much better if he could simply _do_ something, instead of keeping it to himself and acting like it doesn’t bother him, like he can walk past this as if it’s just another day, just another lover. It isn’t and Daniel’s not. He’s freaking falling apart at the seams and this little voice in his head, that sounds an awful lot like Stevie, keeps on shouting that the situation does not deserve to be bestowed with an act of irrationality from him. Not that forcing someone into awkward hate sex could be described exactly as 'rational'. It's anything but, in fact; Finns was way over his head and under the extreme effect of more shots of tequila he can count in two hands, plus the bonus wine.

Sometimes Finns wishes he knew how _not_ to be a grown up all the fucking time. It is really exhausting.

No, he’s not going to destroy Daniel’s art. He’s going to turn around, walk away, leave the building with his head held high and he is going to consider that a small victory in a day that has gifted him with a massive headache, a shattered dignity and a major fall-out with his best friend.

This day has just claimed the right to declare itself the Worst Day of His Life, with flying colors.

The good news is, it can hardly get any worse, right? Whatever happens from now on will only be on the plus side, because this all feels too much like hitting the bottom of something. All he needs now is twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and then a big fat pizza and he’ll be good to -

The door of the studio clicks open. Finns holds his breath and feels his heart immediately start pumping faster in his chest as be braces himself for the confrontation he was ready to postpone. It’s the slowest fucking door in history too, because it takes forever to open and even longer for someone to walk in as the world suddenly seems to be moving in freaking slow motion.

It’s in that moment that Finns understands that quietly celebrating that the day could not get any worse has obviously jinxed it. Maybe from now on he should try not to find any positive sides on anything anymore, ever.

Finns knows there really ain’t nothing so bad that it can’t get worse when Fernando sticks his sodden blond head inside and blinks at him with his long lashes and big chocolate eyes. “Hi,” he says, seemingly confused upon finding him there.

Finns merely sighs, looks at the ceiling and accepts his defeat.

“Uh…” the boy continues, stepping inside. “Is Daniel here?” He’s carrying some plastic bags and the smell of its content immediately impregnates the room, making Finns’s stomach twirl in disgust. Partly because he hasn’t eaten anything yet, partly because he still feels sick from the night before, partly because he could recognize that smell under water and it is a whole new fucking stab to his chest that Fernando already knows what Daniel’s favorite food is. Damn him.

Finns considers not saying anything for a whole two seconds before deciding that giving Fernando the cold treatment would, too, fall under the category of undignified sullen teenager. “No,” he answers, as curtly as anyone could possibly muster. He’s a grown up, yes, but a bitter one.

“Oh.” The boy looks around a little, perhaps suspecting he’s lying. “You’re Finns, right? We met. At Xabi’s -”

“Yeah,” he cuts Fernando off. “Can I help you?”

The Spaniard seems surprised by the question, shifts a little in his place. “I, uh... Want to see Daniel.”

“I already said he’s not here. But I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

“You’re... Waiting for him?” Fernando asks, slightly suspicious.

"Yes."

"But he's not here."

"That's what I just said."

"And you're, what - staying until he shows up?"

“Yeah.” And he’s just decided that. He _was_ about to leave, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let _the other guy_ get cozy and wait around for Daniel on his own. Call him childish, see if he cares.

“Waiting for him?” Fernando repeats again, and his accent is frankly gaining a place entirely of its own in the shelf of Things That Annoy Finns The Most. He could punch that kid right now.

“Is that a problem?”

“It might be,” Fernando says, taking the bait and raising to Finns’ challenge. “I saw you last night. With Sergio.”

“Right,” Finns says, with a practiced air of utter nonchalance that actually costs him a little, because remembering his adventures with Sergio still sends a tingly sensation up his spine.

“I didn’t know you two were -”

“We’re not.”

“Oh.” He stops. “I wasn’t aware that you and Daniel knew each other. You must be close… I’ve been told not everyone gains free access to his studio.”

Finns doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry at that. If only Fernando knew exactly just how ironic his assumption is. It occurs to him that this acrid taste on his tongue and the venomous weight of his words as he speaks to this - well, to this _kid_ \- because Fernando is at least ten years younger than him, if not more - is not really the Spaniard’s fault at all. Perhaps if he _could_ feel the heavy irony hovering above their heads then instead of standing here measuring cocks they would sit down and share a few tears together. Clearly he’s never heard of Steve Finnan’s name in any other circumstance other than as a friend of Xabi’s. It’s not his fault other people have decided to lie to him.

But that’s all very irrelevant when you’re on the cheated side of a relationship. Finns just wants to _win_ , whatever that means. Turns out he really is not the better man after all, just as he suspected. Even though his exterior poise would make anyone think otherwise.

But isn’t he allowed to be furious? Isn’t he entitled to hold a grudge towards the guy who stole his man, whether or not said guy is aware of what he’s done? Someone should shoot Steve down right now if he can’t even get mad for having been made a fool of by this, this… _blondie_. It’s not even his real hair color, for fuck’s sake.

“You’re a sweet kid, aren’t you?” Fernando frowns at the uncanny question. “Just so you won’t think I’m being completely ungenerous, I’ll tell you this. There are many things about Daniel you don’t know.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Steve sighs. “Nothing. It means nothing.”

“Why are you here?”

“That would be none of your business, I’m afraid.”

“Daniel hates it when people show up uninvited when he’s not here.”

“You don’t say.”

“Are you sleeping with him?” Fernando’s question comes out sharp as a needle, his eyes are ablaze. Finns has to bite on his lower lip as to not start laughing, because really. Can it be any more ridiculous?

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. You look like you’re peeing all over to mark territory right now.”

Finns grins, shortly.

“And, frankly, after your display with Sergio last night…”

“Are you saying you think I’m the kind of bloke who fucks committed blokes?”

“Well. Yes.”

“Oh, so you think I’m a whore?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I think it is.”

“Would you just answer my question?” Fernando looks really vexed now. “Are you or are you not sleeping with him?”

“Well, that’s a tricky question,” Finns says, annoying Fernando further just by looking as though he is amused.

“No, it isn’t. It’s a straightforward question. Yes or no?”

Finns narrows his eyes at him, faking thoughtfulness. “I guess the most accurate answer to that would be yes _and_ no.”

“What the hell are you trying to say by that?”

“Here’s an idea: why don’t you go and ask Xabi? He seems to be very fond you. I don’t think he would ever be dishonest. Just ask him what I mean by that.” That remark demands a little tissue for him to clean up the streak of venom out of corner of his lips. Steve hasn’t felt this strongly about Xabi since… Well, since the Spaniard put him in this very same situation, six years ago. Talk about déjà-vu.

What is it with Spaniards and the downfall of his romantic life? There should be a study on it.

“What the fuck are you, ten?” Fernando’s voice rises on every syllable until he’s shouting. “Why can’t _you_ just answer my question?”

“Because I don’t want to.” Finns shrugs. “And I don’t have to either.” He wonders momentarily why is it that he doesn’t just simply say the truth and end the whole thing right now. _Hear, son, Daniel can’t be your boyfriend, because he’s already mine. Well, was. You can have him now. But you should know that you have been cheated on just as I have been for the past month or so._ Simple, isn’t it? Perhaps he just wants everyone involved to feel as frustrated and powerless as he does.

“You know what…” Fernando shakes his head slowly at him. “Xabi said so many good things about you. I’m really surprised that you’re this much of an asshole.”

“I think Xabi wasn’t being very thorough then. ‘Cause I can be much, much worse. You’re lucky I haven’t lost it completely yet.”

“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You wouldn’t, would you? Like I said. There are many things about Daniel you don’t know.”

“Well,” Fernando pauses. “I just learned a new one now.” He drops the plastic bags on the floor. “You can tell Daniel I met his new bitch when he shows up.”

Fernando storms out of the studio and the snick of the door ushers in a thick silence.

Finns stares blankly at the door for a moment as that wall of nonchalance wears off and leaves him a wreck once again. He takes a deep breath, holds his hands together to get them to stop shaking.

Being mean and pretending not to care is a lot harder than simply breaking down, it seems.

x-x-x

The decision to go back home and face the Wrath of Steve was not an easy one. Which is why Daniel figured he needed a few hours to come up with _something_ before heading back to the flat he has been sharing for two years with his boyfriend. Except the flat isn’t his anymore and neither is the boyfriend.

The fact he knows exactly what to expect - furious and disappointed Steve, no more than two hours to collect all his things and clear the apartment - doesn’t make it any easier. The two most constant things in his life - his home and his partner - aren’t anymore. It’s quite a lot to digest, even if he can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel for them anymore. Their ship has sailed, that much is obvious. But it doesn’t hurt less because of it.

It would be a lie to say he’s _over_ Steve. He’s not. Steve’s name still strings a cord connected directly to his heart. He’s come to the invariable conclusion that he is not _in love_ with his partner - _ex_ -partner - anymore. But a few weeks is not enough for anyone to stop loving anything, much less someone who’s shared four years of your life with you.

The _something_ Daniel needs to come up with, at this point, is an incredibly loose concept in his mind. He’s got no fucking clue what _something_ is. Whichever way he chooses to assess the situation, it’s simply impossible to see a not-so-terrible way out of it. He’s past that exit for miles now.

 _Something_ could be a speech, the right words, the right sentiment, or a look, or a story, or… something else entirely. _Something_ could even be a bottle of vodka, which, to Daniel, would make all the difference indeed, but it would hardly win him any points with Steve. Not that there are points to be won, anyway. But you get the idea.

So instead of heading straight home (it’s gonna take a while before he stops thinking of Steve’s flat as _home),_  Daniel decides to go back to the studio, lay low for a while, and hope for an epiphany or at least some sudden surge of courage. God, he should’ve nicked some pot from Martin before storming out.

When he finally sees the door to his studio, Daniel breathes out wearily. As if he hasn’t got enough to feel bad for with Steve, then there’s also Fernando. He’s already sent two text messages to Dan today and none got answered. What is he going to say anyway? He was a disgrace in bed, fled the apartment like a criminal and then simply went AWOL. Not only he has to come clean about Steve, but he also has to explain the reason why he... misfired. And he's not even remotely considering the possibility of confessing he fucked Steve that same night. Honestly, Daniel can't even believe he did all that in less than 12 hours. It's like it happened to someone else; he was only there in body, not in soul. It has got to be some sort of record for highest number of stupidities committed by a single person in 12 consecutive hours.

He nearly runs to the door, wanting nothing more than to lie down and forget there’s even a world outside his studio for a little while, aching for a bit of a friendly and totally non-compromising environment. But he stops dead on his track as soon as makes his way in. His heart goes up to his mouth, then falls back in his chest like an anvil.

Damn it, he has _got_ to start locking this goddamn door…

Steve looks up from the plate he has in hand, meets his stunned gaze for two seconds, then goes back to eating like there is absolutely nothing awkward about it. It takes Dan a long time before he actually reacts. His first instinct is to turn around and run away because he’s so not ready for this yet. As a matter of fact, he’s even less prepared to face Steve than he thought he was. But there isn’t really anything he can do about it now, is there? Looking like a total rat is a possibility, but one he’d like to avoid. For the time being, at least.

Taking a deep breath, Dan shuts the door behind him - _locks it_ \- then takes a couple of steps closer to where Steve is sitting on the floor, surrounded by discarded packages of food. Pork King, it says on the brown bag. Dan’s favorite shitty restaurant and one that he is pretty sure Steve despises with all his heart. It’s too cheap for his upper class taste.

The whole scene is odd, to tell the truth. For starters, Steve is on the ink-stained floor, not even bothering with his expensive clothes. He's eating Pork King, which... Why would he even buy Pork King? It just doesn't make any sense.

“Hey,” he says, after a long spell. Still, the other man doesn’t say anything. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I told you to start locking that door,” he speaks around a mouthful, still avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah.” Daniel stuffs his hands in his pockets just for the sake of having something to do with them. “Didn’t know you liked that stuff.”

“It's disgusting. But I got hungry while I waited,” Steve explains, totally nonchalantly, cleaning his greasy fingers on a napkin. “Decided to have lunch.”

“Huh,” Dan says. “Doesn’t look like the kind of place you’d choose to order from.”

“I didn’t.”

“I didn’t order any food either.”

“I didn’t say it was you.”

Dan frowns. “Then who did?”

Steve finally locks eyes with him and goddamnit, it stings. Steve’s gaze is ice cold and when he speaks, his voice is waspish in reply. “Your boyfriend, of course.” He spits the words as though they are coated in something vile and he just has to get it out of his mouth.

“W-what?” Dan stammers. “What are you talking about?”

“He stopped by, we had a chat. He brought the food. Were you not expecting him?” Dan is pretty sure his mouth is hanging open, his lips are moving, but there’s no sound coming out. “Well then I guess he was aiming for a surprise. How sweet of him.”

“Look, Steve, it’s not -”

“I might have gotten you in trouble, though. I think he thinks we’re sleeping together. I don't know where he got that crazy idea from. I don’t even see you, how would I sleep with you?”

“No, no, no, Steve -”

“I know, we did it last night, but that hardly counted. You might want to ring up and explain the misunderstanding. I did promise I would let you know he stopped by, though. Oh, yeah. He also wanted you to know that he’s aware of your _new bitch_.” Steve’s lips twist into a painful smile. “That’s me, by the way.”

“Oh, God…” Dan shuts his eyes then scrubs his face with his hands.

Try to think of the worst way a break-up could go. This is probably pretty close to it.

“He’s not my… We’re not… It’s… It’s complicated,” he tries.

“Complicated? What’s complicated about it? You got yourself a new boyfriend. You just forgot to share the news with the old one.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He certainly seems to think so. I wouldn’t blame him, really. I bet you’ve spent more time with him in the last couple of weeks than you did with me.” Steve stands up, kicks the Pork King bags aside. “If anyone has been living under a false impression here I’d say it’s me.”

Dan swallows down hard. “I’m so sorry you had to find out that way.”

“Oh are you now? Strange. I don’t believe you at all.”

“I was just about to go home and -”

“Home? Which home?”

“Our home,” Dan says, although lacking a lot in conviction. The words roll out of his tongue like sand.

“You mean that home where you haven’t set foot for more than fifteen minutes, preferably while I’m either asleep or not there, in what? Weeks? That home you mean? ‘Cause I would hardly call that _our_ home. Only one of us has been actually living there. You didn't even spend the night there, did you?”

“I-I’ve been spending a lot of time here.”

“Here? You sure?” Dan nods. Like a bloody child getting scolded at school, too scared to retort. Shit… He always forgets how terrible it is to have those arguments with Steve. The guy is an accusation machine. He turns on his lawyer-y side and just keeps on shooting, never even wavers. His voice is harsh, but restrained, which is even more nut-driving than if he were shouting. Steve Finnan never loses his poise. Dan wants to shake him up until that wall comes down and the mask wears off and then he can apologize ‘till the end of the world and know that he’s hitting something inside of that man, but it’s just impossible. Steve keeps on towering over him while he balks and shudders. “Were you here last night then?”

"No," Daniel admits. "I went to Nick's. Couldn't really sleep."

Steve nods, but doesn't really look very believing. “He seemed to be rather comfortable around here, though,” he continues. “I’d say that was hardly the first time he popped up for a visit. Was it?”

This time he means to answer, but Steve cuts him off before he even has a shot. “Tell me, Dan. I’m curious. Do you usually bring all your fucks here or is it just the special ones? Is this where you do them? Because I have been kicked out of here more times than I can remember and I thought - how naïve of me - that it was because you genuinely didn’t want _anyone_ around your paintings, but now that I think about it… It would be the perfect place for you to bring your fucks, right? I mean, I respected the fact you didn’t want me here, so what were the chances I’d catch you literally with your pants down? It’s perfect. Fernando, on the other hand - he seemed like his presence was very welcome. What does one need to do exactly to gain free access to your sacred studio? Just out of curiosity.”

“It’s n-”

“Is it the sex? Is he really _that_ good in bed? Did he win you over with a fantastic, out of this world blow job or something?”

“Steve -”

“Or are you simply into blondes now? You do realize his hair is not really that color, right?”

“Shit, Steve!” Dan shouts, his hands balled into tight fists. “It’s not like that!”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” He shrugs. “I don’t care what it’s _really_ like. It doesn’t make a fucking difference. The end result is still the same.”

“Just listen to me, ok? For just one secon -”

“The worst part of all this,” Steve interrupts him again and Daniel growls in frustration, “is that I actually let you in. I didn’t have to. I didn’t even necessarily _want_ to. But you insisted. And insisted and insisted and _insisted_ until I had no other choice but to let you in. And for what? Why did you even try that hard?”

“Because I was in love with you,” Dan says, quietly. “That wasn’t a lie.”

“It’s irrelevant.”

“How come being in love with you is irrelevant? It’s how everything started!”

Steve is silent for a moment and then, for the first time since the beginning of their argument, Daniel thinks he sees a crack on the other man’s armor. Steve’s lips draw into a grim curve, his shoulders drop; he looks every bit as tired and sad as the state of his looks suggest. More than that. Steve looks broken. Daniel doesn’t think he’s ever seen that man like that before. Not even during their worst fights.

The Dane feels another small portion of his soul fall away.

“I don’t think you know what love is, Daniel.” Now that really fucking hurt… “I should’ve given up on you before. But I don’t know, I thought… I thought what if he changes this time? What if he actually means it? Maybe it was my mistake after all. I was selfish, thinking of what _I_ wanted from you instead of the other way around. I should’ve known it wouldn’t work. Hell, everyone knew. But I tried. I really did. Not always my best, but I did. The least you could’ve done was be honest with me.”

“I wanted to.”

“Did you? When, exactly? Did you think about telling me while you were fucking him?”

“Steve -”

“You’ve been with him for almost _a month_ ,” his voice now carries a tone of fury he had been disguising behind indifference so far. “I think that’s plenty of time, don’t you? You had every chance to tell me the truth but instead you let me find out by catching you making out with him on a filthy dance floor.”

“Well, you weren’t so far off, were you?”

The minute the words come out, Daniel bites his lower lip and curses himself. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit_! Like he’s got any right to be demanding loyalty or judging anyone right now. Steve could’ve had a fucking orgy and sacrificed puppies and he still would be holding the moral high ground here for all he knows.

Steve’s laughter makes him cringe. “Did you really just say that?”

“I’m sorry. Shit.” Dan combs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to say that, it just - it came out.”

“Right.”

“Look, Steve. You just have to listen to me, ok? I want to tell you everything.”

“Well, that’s interesting. ‘Cause I don’t want to hear anything. As a matter of fact, I don’t have to.”

“Please, Steve -”

“Stop, Daniel. Don’t beg. It doesn’t suit you.”

“What else should I fucking do then?” There’s real heat in his voice now. “You won’t listen to what I have to say, you keep on cutting me off!”

“You should just save your breath. It’s useless to waste it on me. Save it for Fernando, it might work better on him. He’s not used to your screw-ups yet, right? He’s going to think you mean it when you apologize. Besides, I didn’t come here for that. I didn’t even mean to meet your boyfriend.”

“Stop calling him my boyfriend.”

“Fine - I didn’t mean to meet with your _fucking whore_. Is that better?”

Daniel’s lips draw into a thin line. He suddenly feels very protective of Fernando, his blood begins to boil and he almost, just almost, starts seriously barking at Steve.

“Don’t… Don’t talk about him like that. It's not his fault.”

“Oh. That’s cute, Daniel. Standing up for your beau. I wish you had done that for me too.”

“Fuck, Steve! Are you even fucking listening to what you’re saying?!” he finally snaps. “I’m trying to fucking tell you that I feel terrible for what I’ve done because I fucking love you and you won’t even let me! Fernando’s got shit nothing to do with it! Don’t lash out on him! _I’m the whore_! I’m the fucking stupid whore who never deserved you! But don’t fucking talk like that about him and don’t talk like I never had feelings for you, because, shit, Steve… It is literally killing me to think that… That you are thinking that I never loved you.”

“Good. I hope it continues to kill you.”

Daniel is momentarily taken aback by the sincerity on the other man’s voice and the poignancy behind his eyes. “I suppose I deserve to hear that.”

“Why do you even care what I think?”

“Because I always care about what you think. I always have. And because you have to know that it wasn’t just a waste of time. I wasn’t joking around when I said I love you. I didn’t even want anyone else - shit, I never… I didn’t mean for Fernando to happen. I was happy, with you!”

“Happy? You mean you were happy while you languished in your misery because you couldn’t paint?”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t matter whose fault it was, but you were not happy, and neither was I. We just made ourselves believe that because it was easier than assessing the elephant in the room.”

“What… what elephant?”

Steve is quiet for a moment and when he speaks, his voice comes out shaky. “You weren’t in love with me, Daniel.”

“What? No! Stop talking nonsense! That’s bullshit and you know it!”

“You know what I know? That this whole conversation is pointless.”

“Why are we even having it, then?”

“That’s a good question.”

Daniel sighs, mentally exhausted from trying to counter-argue with someone who’s clearly a lot smarter than him. “Steve…” he starts, stops, then ploughs on. “I know you don’t have to listen to anything I have to say, but I owe you this much and I want to give you an explanation.”

Steve merely shakes his head. “You don’t. The facts are the facts, whatever reason you had, that’s your own problem. What you _owed_ me was a tad bit more consideration. And other concepts that have gone completely lost on you, such as respect and loyalty and honesty. That you owed me. But now that that’s all out of the picture, you don’t owe me anything anymore, Daniel. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Come on -”

“I did come here to give you good news, though. And I had to do it in person. You don’t have to bother going back for a shower and a nap anymore. You are officially a free man. You can bring as many fucks as you want to your studio, or you could, I don’t know, marry your inspirational muse for all I care. I’ve got absolutely nothing to do with what you do with your life anymore.”

It doesn’t matter how much aware of the fact their conversation would end like that he was, it still hurts to hear the actual words.

“I know we’re done,” Dan says, head hanging low. “I know we have to be. But I’m not happy about it, Steve. I didn’t mean to hurt you and I hate myself right now for doing it. I made all the wrong calls and I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “So am I.”


	15. High all the time to keep you off my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I really want this story to be over soon. So here, have another update. :) I'm starting to get excited because this is heading towards what I think are some of the best chapters. I hope you guys enjoy the update. And please let me know if you do so! I have this terrible thing where I keep counting hits and comments before I update. It's ridiculous, I know. But it's almost OCD-ish. 
> 
> Please excuse my mistakes. And if you have anything to say at all about this chapter, please share with me! I love reading your thoughts. :)

Finns contemplates a long shower, contemplates drowning himself in the bath tub, contemplates sleeping until the world ends, but ends up contemplating his own bedroom as he pours himself some more bourbon.

It is accurate to say that he hasn’t been completely sober for almost 24 hours now for the first time since probably before he left law school. Finns drunk himself stupid the night before, woke up still drunk and just as he was beginning to drift towards being hungover instead of simply plastered, he got started on round two.

Alcohol, as it turns out, is his only possible company right now. A very sad one, indeed, but also rather suitable for contemplation.

His bedroom looks pretty much the same as it did yesterday, and the day before that, and the week before that and maybe even the year before. Egyptian cotton sheets, four pillows; nightstand and reading lamp on his side of the bed, nightstand and reading lamp on Dan’s side of the bed.

His side, Dan’s side.

Finns considers this as he sips from his bourbon.

It just _looks_ the same. It’s not even the same as it was this morning. This morning Stevie changed the sheets. This morning Daniel technically still had a claim over one side of the bed, one side of the closet, one side of Finns’ life.

The thin veil of stillness in the form of unmoved objects resting where they have belonged for the past two years disguises the real turbulence underneath. Everything there is on borrowed time. Soon it will all be gone.

It took Finns ages getting used to Daniel claiming spaces in his flat, which was a little metaphor for how much room he suddenly started making for himself in Finns’ life in general. It will probably take another while adjusting to the newly emptied holes.

It’s only a matter of practice, he tells himself, of staring at things for long enough until they feel normal again. Until his brain stops screaming that there is something missing everywhere he looks. But it’s hard getting accustomed to this sensation. Daniel’s left an imprint all over the flat; it’s not something a little water and soap can get rid of.

Halfway through his fifth - or is it the sixth? - glass, Steve realizes that it might really take a while for the state of things to be reversed to the way they were before Daniel. Surely more than a couple of hours, which is what he was hoping for. The entire set of the bedroom seems to not make any sense anymore and he wants to stand up and start moving the furniture around, changing the bed linen, maybe even the curtains, but he can’t decide where to start, or even where to put things. There’s not one single sheet in that house that Daniel hasn’t slept on anyway. Might as well just get rid of it all and buy everything new.

This is the kind of moment one asks oneself whether they've done something to get on the black book of whatever cosmic force controls the universe. Perhaps it’s karma. Perhaps Finns wasn’t a decent lad in his past life. Or something. Because regardless of how mean or wrong or idiotic he might be at times, there is no way this is fair. Why is it that he’s the one who gets cheated on and now even his own place, that he bought with his own money and decorated to his own taste, doesn’t feel his anymore?

Steve wonders if things will ever feel normal again. The overall sensation is that it won’t, but he reckons it’s still too soon for conclusions. He did get over Stevie, didn’t he? It wasn’t a task as easy as it might seem from the outside, when you see the two of them getting along so well - most of the time, anyway - nowadays.

They weren’t _in_ love, perhaps, not in the most absolute sense of the expression. Theirs wasn't the story of two people who met and fell desperately for one another. It's not like Stevie and Xabi, or even him and Daniel, but they were together nonetheless. It was a relationship in its entirety, with all the perks and the rules and the fights and whatnot. Finns was used to Stevie’s presence. Stevie had a prominent spot in his life. Their break-up did leave a bit of a scar there. Finns even had to stop listening to music for some time. For a while there, he regarded every single song in which somebody had lost somebody else as spookily relevant, which, as that sort of lyric covers pretty much the whole of music, meant that Finns was pretty spooked more or less all the time.

Before that, back when he and Stevie were still only friends with the occasional benefit and a pretty bad relationship record (Stevie has added a golden star to his ever since; Finns has gone a few notches down, it seems), Stevie came up with a revolutionary idea, crafted by his own beautiful mind, that was as ingenious as it was preposterous: a questionnaire for prospective partners.

It consisted in several multiple choice questions that would evaluate whether or not the person they were about to hook-up with was well-suited. That was the fancy way to put it; in truth it was a rather rude manner of not wasting their precious time with idiots anymore.

Needless to say they never actually went ahead with the idea. They weren’t really that cynical, as it turned out. That, and they imagined the initiative wouldn’t exactly add many reputation points to their résumés, which is basically everything one can count on during the university years while trying to get laid. People who think you’re a good fuck talk; people who think you’re lousy talk even more and louder. Who would still want to go out with freaks that carry a questionnaire meant to judge you on your first date? _I’m sorry but, before you start sucking my dick, I’m gonna need you to answer a couple of questions. Do you have a pen?_

Finns thought a lot about that questionnaire when his and Stevie’s occasional fling started getting more serious, months later. He guesses Stevie did as well. They never talked about it, but it was pretty obvious. They’d check pretty much every box with each other’s questionnaires. Finns reckons that’s why they started properly dating. They weren’t in love, but their scores said they should be, so they went along with it.

Finns hadn’t thought about the damn questionnaire in years. But now he kind of sees the point of it. Had he used it on Daniel he would’ve been spared of the last four years. More importantly, he would’ve been spared of right now.

Dan would’ve failed that questionnaire miserably.

Like a junkie, Steve kept on running back for a few more scars every time Daniel threatened to burn him down, trying to save a relationship that never quite treated him right. It wasn’t all bad, but there was only one possible outcome and one that had been as clear as water since the very beginning.

The two of them listened to different music, read different books, watched different TV shows, ate different food, had completely opposite aspirations. Their favorite movies wouldn’t speak to one another if they met at a party. And neither would they, had they not been completely drunk. Alcohol has that momentary blinding effect. It cuts borders and trims edges and brings people who wouldn’t even spare a second look to one another otherwise closer in a manner that it is really inexplicable and often regretful. If the clarity comes the morning after, you’re one of the lucky ones; if it comes four years later… Well. Join the club.

Dan is hot while Steve is cold; Dan is exotic and adventurous while Steve is conservative and reserved; Dan is curious while Steve is mildly interested; Dan wants to take off, Steve just wants to settle down. How would that ever work for them? There is predictability to the way things have panned out, a slow crawling towards a conclusion that no one could ever interfere with.

It’s weird how you spend so much time thinking about all the things you have in common when you should’ve just noticed all the ways you are different. In the end, that's the side that ends up weighting the most on the scales.

Perhaps expecting someone to fulfill all your needs for your whole life is surreal. But Steve is maybe too old to want anything else. Or he thinks he’s too old, anyway. Most importantly, he feels too old. But he had to live with that constant reminder in the form of Stevie and Xabi right next to him all the time, so it was a bit hard to disentangle himself from that envious side that sprung to life whenever he saw his two best friends together.

Steve took whatever love he could get. Dan’s was awkward, unconventional and crooked at times, but it was sweet and sincere. For a while, they used to have conversations where everything clicked, mashed, corresponded. Even their pauses and punctuation marks seemed to be in accordance. It wasn’t compatibility, though; it was infatuation.

And so, before he even realized what was really happening, things slowly started to shift around Steve to accommodate this uninvited newcomer; Daniel walked in, propped his feet up the table and that was it.

Finns knew that he represented a risk. He’s good at telling who’s going to be a wild trip and who’ll make him feel more balanced. That boy meant danger. He’s not entirely sure he’s a fan of danger, not nowadays, but there was just something about Dan. The way he looked at Steve, as though he were something magnificent, his Danish eyes peering through him with desire, calling for him. Finns had to go there, had to have a taste of it. Being with Dan was life vibrating, coursing through his body like electricity, it meant losing control completely. Steve was dominated; he had it very clear that he should probably never see Dan again each time they met because he would disrupt with the neat order of his life. But the next day came and there he was again, in Daniel’s arms.

Wasn’t it supposed to be wonderful to just let go and lose control?

Steve knows where he got it wrong, though. Now he does. It’s easy to see the wrong turns once you’ve taken them, isn’t it?

The problem was when Steve tried to make the unconventional, conventional. When he made Daniel bow to rules and behave. He broke the boy, subverted the very core of him.

Two years ago, when he forced Daniel to change and move in or leave and never come back, he shouldn’t have given him an option at all. That was his mistake. He should’ve sent the boy on his way, on to live his life as he saw fit. Dan would’ve probably thrown a tantrum, showed up at his building late at night crying for forgiveness and hoping he could work his way back in with a couple of blow jobs (which is awfully whore-y of him, but also a turn on that has won that kid several points over the years, Steve must say) but even his unswerving resilience couldn’t last forever. Eventually he’d grow tired and give up.

Steve established all the boundaries in their relationship. And because he was almost always one step behind, with something to correct and an apology to prove, Daniel merely obliged. And it killed him, slowly, a tiny bit more each day, to the point he became a shadow of his former self. The light he had behind his eyes, the energy and passion he boasted about his art, it was gone. Until he met Fernando, that is.

Fernando is the answer to the question ‘Is there anyone out there who can bend Daniel Agger without breaking him in the process?’. Yes, there is. But that person is not Stephen Finnan.

Somewhere on the back of Steve’s head, the word ‘inevitable’ sparks to life and it makes his stomach stir up. It’s infuriating how not even his cheated ex mind can’t seem to find a way in which the two of them don’t match. It’s almost like Steve was the problem, not the victim.

Another empty glass, another hour gone, another whole lot of thinking that doesn’t really do anything for him other than increase his pain. Steve’s tired. Tired of being himself, of being so goddamn tidy all the time. He’s tired of feeling too old.

Not without some struggle, Finns gets up and decides to save the rest of the bourbon for later. Dragging his feet, he makes his way to the closet. His side is packed with elegant, pristine designer clothes, while Daniel’s is pretty basic: t-shirts and jeans.

Finns is invaded by a rampant need to get all of Dan’s things out of his closet. He has to make that scent of cologne and ink go away; his things need to be separated from Daniel’s. With moves that are more wobbly than furious, Finns takes every single piece that belongs to Daniel and throws it on the bedroom floor. It’s a petty thing to do, he knows it even in his inebriated state, but it momentarily blocks the sick agitation in his stomach. That’s enough reward for him. He’ll take whatever he can to feel even a tiny inch better.

Now he needs to pick his best trousers, to highlight the curve of his bottom, and his most appealing shirt. Something elegant and edgy, but not vulgar and unfashionable. He needs to look his very best, in spite of his drunkenness.

Steve Finnan is going hunting tonight.

x-x-x

Fernando slams his hand down on the counter. The barman looks up from where he’s preparing a colorful drink to one of the more upbeat queens desperately trying to catch his attention and nods his head.

Every once in a while one of the other gentlemen around the bar bumps into Fernando with a little more purpose than warranted, a bolder hand brushes by, inebriated lips whisper invitations of all sizes and colors to his ears. From a simple ‘Can I get you a drink, lovely?’ to a blunt ‘I wanna fuck you stupid’ and variations thereof.

Fernando pretends he’s not listening. Half of him isn’t, anyway. Besides, he can’t really blame anyone for trying their luck on the lonely guy getting wasted by the bar. It’s a nightclub, one where people are literally having sex on the dance floor right now. Naughty whispers and funny touching is kid’s stuff, all things considered.

And, to be honest, those things are not entirely unwelcome. They were, merely 24 hours before, but not anymore. Fernando had all types of devilish and vengeful intentions when he decided to leave the warmness of his flat and come to Mercy. So far, all he’s done is drink. By himself - not due to lack of options, mind you. Turns out he’s not as inclined towards revenge sex as he thought he would be by the time he got here.

The barman - his name is Pepe, Fernando’s learned - comes back with another glass of something that has a very fancy name but really just tastes like vodka on ice. It looks like it too. It might as well be. The colorful drinks look stunning and very enticing, but they do not match the dark cloud hanging above his head. Fernando’s not even sure he belongs at a night club right now - a dirty old pub would probably suit his mood better.

“You ok there?” Pepe asks.

Fernando offers him a wan smile and a toast before downing half of his glass in one gulp.

“Shouldn’t you be dancing a little? Burn some of that alcohol before it starts burning you…” Pepe offers.

“Nah. I’m good.”

With a shrug, Pepe returns to his duty. Fernando watches as he shows off a little, throwing the mixer up in the air and catching it with his hand behind his back, before serving the drink to a very enthusiastic man on the other end of the counter.

The Spaniard sighs. There was a time when that sort of thing would excite him. When the atmosphere of this club would make him shiver all over. When the music pumping loud from the speakers would practically make his body move out of its own accord. It feels like such a long time ago.

Who is he kidding, really? Fernando came here because he thought that _wanting_ to take his frustration out on sex was the sensible thing to do in a time like this. He _thought_ he’d feel better once he had picked up some random guy and fucked him senseless just to prove a point. That’s what he thought. What he actually feels is a long way off.

What makes him angrier about the whole thing is that allowing himself to get so involved with someone he barely knows is not how he normally operates. Usually, it takes ages until things kick off towards emotional attachment. There’s a long process of getting to know his prospect and experimenting with different options before moving on to phase two. This time, though, he went against his own nature, his own principles, and simply let his guard down, chose to believe in this stupid thing called _destiny_. There is no such thing. There’s only horny men picking as many fucks as they can and saying whatever the hell they have to in order to get the best possible sex, for free, and whenever they feel like it. That’s all there is.

Daniel was just too good to be true. He should’ve known.

Fernando feels… heartbroken, to put it simply. And embarrassed too. Embarrassed because perhaps he simply wasn’t supposed to be feeling crestfallen in the first place. They never really talked about being exclusive, but it just seemed like they were both on the same page. They were seeing each other frequently and, when they weren’t, they’d spend all day long texting. He believed Dan when he said that being at his studio and seeing his paintings wasn’t something he’d allow just any guy to do. He believed when Daniel made him feel special. He probably did the same thing to that Finns bloke.

And there’s that too. He allowed jealousy to take the best of him and behaved like a child in front of one of his boss’ best friends. Depending on what Finns tells Xabi of their little quarrel, it could change completely the nature of his relationship with his mentor and the way Xabi sees both him and his work. His entire career could be compromised and then he’d have to go back to Spain with his tail between his legs and accept that writing will never really happen for him. All that because of one really good fuck. Fernando’s judgment used to be a lot better than this.

He went from heaven straight to hell in one afternoon. That’s quite impressive, even for someone with a case history of flopped relationships and failed dream pursuits as his.

He finishes his drink, shuts his eyes and grimaces as the liquid goes down his throat burning hot. Another round, then. He slams his palm on the counter once more and Pepe arches an eyebrow at him.

“You must be pretty wasted if Pepe’s starting to give you the eye,” someone says from behind him. So far, Fernando hasn’t turned around to check anyone who’s spoken to him, but the voice sounds vaguely familiar. As he turns his head, he realizes he must be a lot drunker than he thought, because the whole room seems to spin faster than it should for a second and he has to grab on to the edge of the counter to keep from falling flat on his ass, which would be the cherry on top of his very undignified day. “Easy there, beautiful,” says the person, wrapping a strong but gentle arm around his shoulders.

When the room finally stops turning, he finds Sergio with an amused smile from ear to ear, looking down on him. “You ok there?” he asks, slowly taking his arm away as he realizes Fernando can hold himself still.

“Sergio,” he says, a little dizzy. “Hi.”

“Not to be judgmental or anything, but Pepe is used to seeing people getting stinking drunk here all night, every night. When he starts giving you the eyebrows, it’s usually for a good reason.”

Fernando sighs. “I might’ve had one too many shots.”

“One?”

“Or five. Who’s counting?”

The other man chuckles. “I’d offer to buy you one, but I don’t think you really need me to.”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence, during which the two of them stare fixedly at one other - Sergio clearly thinking of something, Fernando not completely sure what’s going on. The music is pumping too loud for his brain to process information in regular speed.

“You know, I was just gonna ask for a drink before heading back to the booth, but I’m afraid I can’t leave you like that in here.”

Fernando offers him a faded grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I believe it’s you I’m supposed to be weary of. Xabi said so.”

“At that lame ass cult party Xabi threw, probably. In here? Hardly. This place is a jungle compared to anywhere else you’ve ever been to. It takes some time getting used to how… _intense_ … some of those bitches are.”

Sergio’s concern is both sweet and annoying at the same time; he’s not a _niño_ anymore. He can handle handsy bitches. He can _be_ a fucking handsy bitch for all he knows. Just ask fucking Daniel.

He is so drunk in fact that his reaction is actually to laugh. “I’m a big boy, you don’t have to worry,” he says, in-between waves of laughter.

“But I do.” Sergio suddenly looks more serious. “You look like you could pass out any minute now.” Fernando opens his mouth to argue but doesn’t come up with anything. The rate this is going he really might. “And also that you could use a friend.”

“Ah,” he says, gazing away from the other man, a little forlorn. “That pathetic?”

“That’s not the word I was going for.” Sergio pauses. “You look sad.”

Fernando smiles again, points his index finger to Sergio and pretends to shoot him. “That I am.”

“Do you wanna go somewhere else?”

“Don’t you have to spin or something?”

“Marcelo can hold the dance floor. The queens love him. I’m starting to get jealous, actually.”

“Shouldn’t you want to stay then?”

“Not if you need me more than the club.”

Fernando regards his fellow countryman studiously. There’s a side of him screaming that he shouldn’t leave this club with Sergio under no circumstances considering his current state of mind, doesn’t matter where to. But then the other half just desperately wants a shoulder to cry on, to let all the grievance out before it consumes him completely. That’s the bad thing about being the new guy around; if you get yourself involved with one of your two closest pals, and that person happens to be somewhat related to the other one you know, then that pretty much buries all your options.

Fernando lets his eyes follow down the curve of Sergio’s neck, to the spot of tanned skin the first two undone buttons of his shirt reveal… His shirt actually seems to be hiding quite the vision underneath it. For a second there Fernando catches himself wondering what Sergio must look like under all those layers. He has the confidence of a man who knows he’s irresistible. And dear God, he does look very fit, doesn’t he?

“Fernando?”

“Uh,” Fernando says, blinking back into focus, and makes a quick decision. “Yeah,” he finally answers. “Yeah, I wanna get out of here.”

“Nice,” Sergio smiles one of his big, toothy, trademark smiles. He’s got great teeth, Fernando thinks. Great teeth that make up for a nice smile. Sympathetic and enthusiastic. It’s like everything’s awesome when he opens up that grin. It could bright up a room. Fernando thinks that’s exactly the kind of company he needs right now. “I’ll just go tell Marcelo that I’m leaving for the night and get my coat, ok? You wait here?”

“Sure.”

“Ok, don’t go anywhere!”

Fernando watches as he disappears amongst the sea of people, then exhales loudly.

“Hey. Do you still want this?” Pepe waves another dose of his drink at him.

Fernando considers it for a moment before snatching it away from the bartender and downing it in three swallows.

A little liquid encouragement always helps.

 

x-x-x

Steven gets home later than usual that night. Xabi’s sitting in the darkness of their living room when his husband’s key finally turns in the lock and a relieved sigh escapes his lips as though he had been holding his breath until now. He checks his watch: it is way over midnight. For a moment there Xabi thought he wasn’t coming home at all.

Steven moves in slow steps, takes off his coat, then his suit jacket, loosens his tie and then drops everything on the corner table close to the door. Xabi watches in silence as his finger hovers over the light switch for a few seconds, pondering, before he finally turns it on.

This is not a good sign at all, he thinks.

It’s only when Steven turns around that he realizes he is not alone.

Steven blinks at him. Xabi blinks back, eyes adjusting to the light.

“Xabi,” he says, sounding more tired than surprised. As a matter of fact, he looks exhausted. A wreck, really. Xabi’s heart tightens inside his chest. “How long have you been there?”

“A while.” Xabi smiles, a little hesitantly, a little sadly. “I made you tea,” he says, pointing to the two mugs resting on the center table. “I’m afraid it’s cold by now.”

“Oh.” Stevie’s eyes move sluggishly from the mug and back to Xabi. “I’m sorry. I had so much to do at the office…” his voice trails off and he leaves it at that.

“That’s ok. I can make you another cup, if you want,” Xabi offers.

“Nah, it’s ok. I could do more with some scotch, to be honest.”

“You look tired.”

Steven sighs. “I am. It was a long day.” He drops down on the couch opposite his husband like a dead weight and shuts his eyes. In any other day, Xabi wouldn’t make too much of it. Today, however, the fact Steven deliberately chose to sit across from him instead of next to him sends a bit of a pang shooting right through the Spaniard.

Stop reading too much into it, he tells himself. It’s nothing. The fact they had a fight the night before and that Steven was too quiet in the morning means nothing. It’s perfectly normal that he was stiff as a twig in anxiety because he meant to speak to Finns today. They’re best friends, that’s ok. Right? Besides, they made up, didn’t they? They’re ok. Steven wouldn’t get mad at him all over again just because of Finns. Would he?

“So, how was your day?” Xabi aims for cool nonchalance, circling the question he really wants to make, but he’s not entirely sure he’s managed to keep the apprehension out of his voice.

“Bad.”

“Why?”

Steven gesticulates randomly. “Too many things,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. “I’m sorry I was late. I didn’t know you were waiting up. I should’ve called.”

“You were busy,” he says, not as a question. “That’s ok.”

“But you were waiting. With tea.”

“I couldn’t go to sleep before you arrived.”

“Why not?”

Xabi sighs. “Are we ok, Steven?”

The Englishman blinks slowly at him, but his face remains impassive. “What makes you think we’re not?”

“I don’t know. Last night, I guess.”

Xabi notices as Steven’s eyes flinch away for the briefest of moments before he replies. “We’re ok.”

“We don’t feel ok.”

“Last night is water under the bridge, Xabs. We already talked that through.”

“What about tonight?” Xabi cocks him an eyebrow. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“Like what?”

“Like did you speak to Finns today?”

Something shifts in Steven’s expression, his lips are pressed together. “Yes,” he answers, steadily. “I went to see him during lunch break, since he wasn't picking up his phone."

“… And?”

“He was home.”

“I meant how was it.”

There’s a lengthy pause after the question leaves his lips and Xabi wonders if maybe he should’ve waited until Steven had washed away that thick layer of exhaustion with a nice hot bath before diving into the subject. Judging by the manner Steven’s eyebrows gather in, the answer is yes. “He hates us.”

Xabi can’t say that surprises him. Considering the way Steven reacted the night before, Finns would probably be some ten times worse, at least. Still, it rattles him nonetheless. “What do you mean, ‘us’? Why would he hate you?”

“Because I stood by you, of course.”

Xabi doesn’t really know what to say to that and so they lapse back into silence. Is he supposed to be glad that his husband took his side even though it was against his best friend’s interest - allegedly - or upset that Steven looks so crestfallen for having done that?

“He got mad because you defended me?”

“No. He got mad because he feels betrayed.”

“That is a very strong word.”

“It’s appropriate if you look at things from his side,” Steven says, his tone slightly flat, but also maybe a tiny bit hurt.

Xabi doesn’t want to overreact, but he’s growing more frustrated by the second now. This is exactly the sort of thing he feared, that Steven would go back to blaming him for all that is wrong with Finns and that their reconciliation from the night before would be automatically overruled.

Xabi feels like throwing his hands in the air and screaming now, because honestly. Suddenly it’s like he’s orchestrated all of Daniel’s misbehaviors in the past four years and even mentored his affair with Fernando all this time.

He’s torn between feeling bad for Finns, who’s admittedly in a fucked up situation and perfectly within his right to hate the entire world right now, and having to sustain a point of view he knows will hurt the Irishman simply because not even the one person who should get him seems to be willing to do so.

“I was hoping you would’ve understood by now,” Xabi starts again. “I can see how Finns won’t. Not now, anyway. But you… I’m surprised.”

“Understood what?”

“That I didn’t do anything to intentionally hurt Finns, or anyone else for that matter, in any way.”

Stevie shrugs. “That’s beside the point.”

“Why?”

“Because you did hurt him. Whether or you meant to or not.”

Xabi swallows back down a displeased grunt. “I never told Daniel to go ahead and cheat on him, Steven. It was quite the opposite.”

“It’s not about what you said to Daniel, it’s about what you _didn’t_ say to the rest of the parties involved.” Steven scrubs a hand across his face. “If not Finns, you know… Then at least for your boy. I hardly think he’ll be happy when he finds out.”

“I hate it when you imply that I don’t care enough about Finns. Like I was cheering for Fernando. You can use his name, by the way. And he’s not _my boy_.”

Steven looks away, doesn’t say anything and Xabi is made even more thwarted by his lack of response. That’s Steven’s way of implying that this is an argument that neither of them will ever make out of as a winner.

“I really wish you wouldn’t be like that.”

“I’m just tired, Xabi. Finns got the week off, I had to take all his work load.”

“You’re not just tired, honey, you’re upset. With me. Because your friend is not speaking to you.” Steven opens his mouth and means to retort, but Xabi raises his palm out in the air and stops him. “I am sorry, you know. I’m sorry for Finns and for you too. But I refuse to take that blame. I wasn’t behind Daniel’s actions and I never supported him. I gave him a piece of my mind. My only fault is that I believed Daniel would do the sensible thing and come clean to both Finns _and_ Fernando. Clearly I trusted the wrong person.”

Stevie watches him quietly for a spell, his eyes distant while Xabi’s heart races manically. “I don’t blame you,” he says, at last. “I know it’s not your fault. Sometimes I think you underestimate how I feel about you, Xabi, I don’t just mean the fact that I love you. You seem to think I don’t give enough credit to your judgment or your good intentions or even your intelligence. Six years and you still think I have Finns on a pedestal.”

“That’s because you do.”

“No,” Steven shakes his head. “You don’t get it. I worry about Finns because someone has to.”

“It doesn’t have to be you.”

“I’m his best friend. Of course it has to be me.”

“Steven,” Xabi starts, shifting a little in his place and thinking over his words before he even says them. This is a very sensitive subject. A little slip in the vocabulary here and he could be kicking off World War III. “I know, ok? He’s your friend, you love him, that’s all right. I’ve learned to love him too. What I mean is - it’s not up to you to decide who’s going to be taking care of Finns or not. There’s only so much you can do as a friend. He needs more than you can offer.”

Stevie frowns at him awkwardly. “You’re not implying that I want to sleep with him, are you?”

Xabi shakes his head. “I’m implying that you have to let him decide who’s good enough for him and who’s not, _by himself_.”

“Right, because he’s been doing such a good job, hasn’t he? Daniel is a fucking dream coming true.”

“At least he tried,” Xabi shrugs. “He fell in love, what are you gonna do? You gotta let him go, Steven.”

His husband is quiet for a moment, staring fixedly at him, his eyes dark. “You don’t know what he was like before, Xabi. You didn’t know him. Have you ever heard him laughing lately? I mean, really laughing. Outright, bending over, crying from so much laughter. Have you?” Xabi opens his mouth, tries to quickly recall a situation, but fails. “You haven’t. Because he doesn’t. Not anymore. He’s always inside his own little shell. Whatever the hell happens to him, he doesn’t show. If he’s angry or sad or happy - it’s all the same. But Finns wasn’t always like that. He used to exude confidence and now he mopes around wondering if he’s even good enough for a wanker like Daniel. That’s not right.”

Xabi presses his lips into a firm line. “I didn’t say it was right, the way Daniel makes him feel at times.”

“It’s not Daniel. _I_ did this to him. _We_ did this. When I broke up with him after going behind his back for a month with you. He stopped talking to me and when he started again he was different.”

Xabi sucks the air in slowly. “Do you regret it?” he asks, the question loaded with meaning. “Do you regret us?”

Stevie huffs out a short laugh. “Seriously? How can you still ask me that?”

“It seems like that’s what you just said.”

The Scouser shakes his head. “I didn’t say I regret _you_. I said I regret what I did to Finns.”

“So you blame me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Xabi, stop putting words in my mouth. Don’t start making this about something that it isn’t. It has nothing to do with _us_. You just don’t know.”

“Then tell me,” Xabi exclaims. “What is it that I don’t know?”

Stevie stops, exhales then lets his shoulders drop wearily. “Can we not have this conversation right now? I really didn’t have a good day and I need to be back at the office really early tomorrow. I still need to find some papers before I go to bed, so -”

“All right,” Xabi says, half-heartedly. “It’s ok.”

Stevie locks eyes with him for a second before getting on his feet and marching up to him. Leaning forward, the other man cups Xabi’s face with both his hands before pressing their mouths together. Xabi closes his eyes and breathes him in while Stevie slowly turns the lip-lock into a proper kiss.

When he pulls away, there’s a ghost of a smile dancing on the corners of his mouth, barely there at all. “Stop thinking nonsense. It was just a bad day at the office.”

Xabi hesitates, but nods his head eventually. He’s not so convinced the things he’s thinking are nonsense. Steven kisses his forehead and leaves him to his own thoughts as he disappears from sight.

Xabi falls asleep some two hours later, beaten by exhaustion, alone in the bedroom.

x-x-x

It’s three thirty in the morning when his phone starts ringing.

It takes Daniel a few seconds to even notice. He’s been stuck in a near catatonic state for hours now, staring blankly at his ceiling as he considers all the one hundred and one ways in which his life is going to be completely different from now on.

Dan rolls on to his side and fumbles for his phone next to the mattress, on the floor. For a moment there he nurtured the hope of it being Fernando finally answering one of his two hundred calls or six thousand texts. But that was just wishful thinking… Daniel didn’t even consider the chance of it being Steve. Steve hates his guts.

It says Martin on the screen.

Dan sighs. There are only two things Martin wants when he rings any given person in the middle of the night: to brag or to ask for sex. He quit calling Daniel for the latter a while ago, after Steve threatened to sue him for harassment if he kept on waking them up in the wee hours. So unless news of his break up have traveled fast, Martin probably wants to gloat about something. More likely about _someone_ , which is what he always does.

Either way, Daniel is barely in the mood to handle himself right now, much less the endless eat-as-much-as-you-want buffet that is Martin’s sex life.

The Dane ignores the call and turns his back to where he left the phone on the floor. Thirty seconds later it sparkles back into life. Maybe Martin’s managed to fuck Sergio in the Go-Go cage now. That’s exactly the sort of thing that crazy Slovakian won’t ever let any of them hear the end of.

His sigh grows into a grunt as Dan ignores the second call as well and turns the phone to mute.

The phone starts buzzing and Daniel swears to God he never realized how fucking loud a cell on mute could be. What is even the bloody point of that shit?

“What?” he shouts into the speaker, his finger already hovering over the ‘end call’ button. “It’s three in the fucking morning, Martin, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Daniel,” his friend speaks on the other side, a little breathless. “Thank God you picked up the fucking phone, you asshole. Don’t you fucking ignore my calls,” he says, but he doesn’t sound bitchy - he sounds nervous. Shaky, almost. Definitely sober. Daniel’s too used to Martin’s drunken late night calls to know when he is under the influence or not.

The other end sounds awfully quiet, Martin’s rant aside. No music, no voices, no nothing. Martin and silence are two things that are usually never together. Even his breathing sounds quieter than Dan would’ve expected. That is very odd, he thinks.

“What do you want?” Daniel asks, although with a lot less purpose than a moment ago.

“Are you home?”

Daniel’s throat tightens a little at that. “No. Yes. I’m at the studio. That’s my home now. Steve and I broke up.”

Martin is quiet for a moment. “Oh,” is all he says. And that’s when Daniel knows there’s definitely something wrong.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say?”

“What else would I say?”

“I don’t know. Some bullshit about going out to celebrate or something. Isn’t that like Christmas for you?”

“Yeah, well, maybe some other time,” Martin says hurriedly, as though he wasn’t even paying attention. “Look, I need you to get dressed and come down to the hospital. Now.”

“Hospital?”

“The Royal.”

“Why are you at the hospital?”

“I’ll explain it to you when you get here.”

“Martin,” Daniel starts, concern finally etching onto his voice as he sits up. If he couldn’t sleep before… “What the hell is going on? Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, Daniel. Just come quick, ok? I need - Shit, I need you to be here.” Martin talks with urgency, he’s beginning to sound impatient.

“I’ll go, but you can’t just tell me to get to the fucking hospital in the middle of the night and not tell me what it's about. I’m bloody worried here! Jesus, what happened to you?”

Martin sighs - and it sounds tired. Dan can almost picture him in one of his rare moments of exhaustion, pressing his fingers against his eyelids. “It’s not me, ok?” he starts again, with a sort of hesitation on his voice that sends a shiver up Dan’s spine. There’s something really, really off about Martin…

“It’s… It’s Steve.”

“… What?”

“You have to come here.”

“What happened to Steve?” Dan asks. His body’s gone rigid; his heart is beating at the back of his throat. His voice sounds terribly freaked out, even to his own ears.

“I’ll tell you once you get here. Stop stalling.”

Martin doesn’t even wait for his reply, simply hangs up. Daniel stays immovable, holding the phone against his ear. It’s only after a spell that he realizes he’s been squeezing the mobile with such strength his hands are starting to get dormant.

 _Shit_ , is all he can think as he gets on his feet and starts picking up his discarded clothes. _Shit, shit, shit, shit…_


	16. High all my life to forget I'm missing you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick-ish update! I'm almost proud of myself. :) Not far from the finale now! As always, please forgive all my mistakes. Hope you like this chapter. Feedback is much welcome!

Fernando wakes up in a bed that isn't his, in a room that isn't his, wearing... well, nothing.

That's the most disconcerting part. He's lying on top of the bed-that-isn't-his' duvet and there's nothing but a thin, nearly see-through sheet covering his modesty. Luckily, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around to witness that. Which he immediately realizes is a stupid sort of relief, since it doesn’t eliminate the very likely possibility that someone has already seen him naked.

Fernando sits up and moans as he's hit by a sharp wave of pain. His brain is banging against the side of his skull and the only thing he’s positively sure of right now is that he’s never been to this place before in his life, a knowledge that doesn’t exactly cast light over last night’s events, but is more than sufficient to make him relatively freaked out - or as much as his current state of disorientation allows him to be, anyway.

He cannot remember last night if his life depends on it and, as far as he knows, it just might. That's never a good sign, but it's usually how you end up in strangers' beds. The last thing he recalls is Mercy, although even that is a bit of a blur. He knows he sat by the bar downing one drink after the next for at least an hour - which explains a lot, actually.

He pushes the sheet aside and touches his feet to the carpeted floor. His chest is burning and he's not entirely sure it has anything to do with the hangover. Fernando's tense, his muscles are all stiff and sore and he's afraid to leave this room to find out exactly what he did last night. In his experience, certain things are better left unknown.

When he decided to leave the comfort of his apartment and head down to Mercy, this is what he had in mind, sort of: he wanted to go wild, to embrace recklessness and prove a point. Which point, exactly, he’s not certain of, but he’s sure there is one, or there was, when he decided that it needed to be proven. It has been forgotten alongside everything else. That sort of takes the whole purpose out of his behavior, though. Fernando has no idea how he got from there (late night-misery topped with alcoholic reasoning) to here (waking up in a stranger’s bed) but he is certain that it was a massive failure. If a one night stand is all he thought he needed to make himself feel better, well… Think again.

"Shit," the Spaniard mutters under his breath, still tasting last night in his mouth. He’d rather not try to figure out what this acridness is.

It doesn't take a lot of inspecting to find his clothes. They have been carefully folded and are just waiting for him on the other end of the bed, where the sheets aren't wrinkled and the pillow doesn't seem to have been slept on. That's weird, isn't it? Did they - he and whoever owns this place - do it using just one side of the bed? Is that even possible? He can’t imagine that he would manage to be that tidy - neither normally and especially nor in a critically crazy condition.

Dressing up proves to be quite the task. Fernando has to sit down to get his underwear and jeans back on, like a four year-old trying to get his clothes on by himself for the first time. His head is still spinning a little and feeling inhumanly heavy. It is also possible that he is still a little bit drunk.

He can hear music playing outside, really low. Fernando can’t really make out much of it, but it sounds like a Latin sort of song. Like a cumbia. Every now and again, a voice joins in and sings a few verses here and there - not very well, mind you.

Oh, what the hell… Fernando braces himself for courage and leaves the safety of the bedroom to find out what his mistake looks like.

Fernando’s first reaction upon seeing Sergio Ramos dancing in his underwear is to be completely paralyzed in shock. The second is to realize that he’s got no idea why he’s even surprised. It makes a lot of sense that it would be him, doesn’t it?

If he pushes a little he can remember Sergio last night. A little bit. Joining him by the bar and then… Something. That’s when the dots stop connecting and the night becomes a hot mess. Apparently, a _really_ _hot_ mess.

The moment he spots Fernando standing like a statue by the bedroom door, Sergio spins around and fixes him with a broad, open smile. “Hey! Good morning, beautiful!”

Fernando swallows down hard. As if out of their own accord, his eyes roam Sergio’s half-naked body up and down. Jesus, that is one good-looking man. It’s undeniable that there is… _appeal_. In any other day, Fernando would probably feel very accomplished for having taken advantage of someone as fit as Sergio, who seems to be a decent lad as well. Definitely earns extra points for personality. But not today.

Today he is… devastated.

x-x-x

Xabi hates hospitals.

He remembers this one time when he was twelve and broke his leg. His father carried him to the hospital as he cried in pain and screamed in horror at the sight of his leg bent in such an unnatural angle. He had to go through two surgeries, stayed at the hospital for two weeks. The worst two weeks of his life.

That pretty much ended his hopes of ever becoming a professional footballer, which is what he had in mind for himself at that time. His father had been a rather successful player and, like with most boys his age, all Xabi wanted was to be as good as dad. His dream didn’t last long, though. He cried for days when he got the news that being a professional athlete of any kind was out of the picture, refused to even leave his room for almost a month. When he finally did, it was to take down all the posters he had on his wall, as well as the cards and the jerseys and the balls, and leave them in the trash outside. He didn’t want to have anything to do with football anymore. Stopped going to the matches, stopped watching it on TV. Whenever his friends started discussing it, he would step away and go find something else to do, which basically meant Xabi spent most of his time alone, since it was pretty much the headliner of nine in ten conversations at school. The other one was girls. Xabi was still very young but he already knew girls weren’t really that appealing to him. Not like football.

He started spending more and more time at the library, with his face stuck in books, and soon enough he was writing his own stories. At the age of 18 he already had a book of short stories published. At 25 he’d written three novels and collaborated one way or another in two others. That was when this big publishing house from England invited him to work with them. He moved to Liverpool and the rest is history.

Football eased its way back into his life naturally because of Steven and his passion for Liverpool. Xabi’s ok with it now. He’s over his hatred for the sport, can kick a ball around and not burst into tears. He’s even been to Anfield a few times throughout the years. Hospitals, though... They still freak him out. It’s where things go to die, be it dreams or people. How can anyone not want to run away screaming from a place like that is beyond him.

When he spots Daniel in the waiting room, looking completely desolate with his face buried in his hands, Xabi has to stop and take a deep breath, bracing himself for the very real possibility that this moment might change his life forever.

He was pulled out of bed by his phone ringing at five in the morning. It was Daniel asking - _begging_ him to _please_ come to the hospital. When he said Finns had been involved in some kind of accident, Xabi’s heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds.

Variations of _‘Please, God, no, God, please, _please_ , God, no, no…’_ have been playing on loop in his head. It’s all he can think. In the end, Xabi was actually grateful that Steven ended up falling asleep on the couch in the study room instead of joining him in bed. If he had, then he probably would’ve woken up with the phone too and then Xabi would’ve had to tell him. He didn’t have it in him to wake his husband up to inform him that his best friend had been hospitalized. Not when things are so... strained. 

Ever since Daniel's call, the Spaniard has been engulfed by a bubble of guilt. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive himself if something happens to Finns. And neither will Steven. Xabi’s a jangle of nerves right now, though it's hard to tell what is scaring him the most: losing Finns or Steven’s anger and disappointment.

It’s only when he gets really close that he notices Martin is there too, a possessive hand resting on the nape of Dan’s neck as if to show him he’s not alone.

“Daniel,” he says to announce his presence. The tense stillness in his voice betraying far more than any words ever could.

The Dane lifts his head like a thunder at the sound of Xabi’s voice. Daniel’s eyes are red and puffy; he’s been crying. Xabi presses his lips into a firm, tight line. _‘Oh, God, please, God, no…’_

Dan’s eyes look around him for a bit, as though he’s waiting for something. “Where is he?”

Xabi shakes his head. “I didn’t tell him.” Dan looks confused, but doesn’t say anything. “How is he?”

“We don’t know yet.” He sits up properly. “They haven’t said anything.”

“What happened?”

Daniel exchanges a quick glance with Martin. “I think he was in some kind of fight.”

“He _was_ in some kind of fight,” Martin corrects him. “The kind where you’re way smaller than your opponent and ends up getting your ass kicked.”

Xabi knows what he’s heard, but it makes no sense at all. Finns, in a fight? “… what?”

“He picked up a fight with a guy twice his size. Kyrgiakos. I don’t know how it started, but I know it was Steve, ‘cause Kyrgi was clearly trying to shove him away, but he was having none of it. So Kyrgi punched Steve a couple of times and then he fell down and hit his head, so I picked him up, shoved him in a cab and brought him here,” Martin explains.

“Wait… _You_ were with him?”

“No. We just happened to be at the same place.”

“What place was that?”

“Let’s just say it was the kind of place Steve doesn’t usually go to and leave it at that.”

Xabi frowns, but decides not to ask. “So… Was he still conscious when you got here?”

“Barely. Drunk out of his ass. Probably took some other shit as well. Completely out of his mind. Was babbling about Daniel all the way here but I couldn’t really understand what the hell he was saying.” The Dane’s shoulders drop as he looks down at his own hands. “I didn’t think it was anything _serious_. I mean, he did cut his head and it was bleeding like fuck, but I thought he was just drunk, you know? ‘S why I decided not to the call an ambulance. A nurse took him inside and said she was going to patch him up and send him on his way, so I waited.”

The bubble of apprehension inside Xabi’s chest is about to explode. “And?” he demands.

Martin draws the air in slowly, shrugs once. “She came back an hour later saying he had passed out while getting stitched up and that they’d taken him in for exams ‘cause he didn’t look good at all. She asked if I was family and I said no, so she said I should call a relative and ask them to come over because she couldn’t tell me anything unless I was family.”

“And those fucking assholes haven’t returned with information ever since!” Daniel bellows towards the front desk. A lady raises her head, glares at him, then goes back to her thing. “Assholes!” Dan repeats before turning to Xabi. “I told them he has no family here and that I’m his partner, that we live together, but they still won’t let me inside. That bitch at the front desk said a doctor would come out to talk to us but that was fucking ages ago.”

“Wait, there’s a male nurse coming,” Martin says, standing to his feet. “I’ll see if I can get any information from him.”

Xabi observes as the Slovakian makes his way to the nurse as though he were in a catwalk, his previously darkened expression morphing into a wolfish one.

“Fuck,” Daniel mutters, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands.

Xabi takes the seat next to him, where Martin was before. “He’s not going to die, is he?” he asks and feels as Daniel stiffens up next to him.

“Shut up.” He sounds more nervous than obstinate and that’s definitely not the response Xabi was hoping for. He just needs someone to tell him that Finns is going to be all right so that he can go back to breathing again. “He’s not going to die.”

“Why did you call me?”

“I had to call someone.”

“Why _me_? Why not Steven? You have his number, don’t you?”

Daniel goes quiet for a moment. Out of the corner of his eyes, Xabi sees the Dane’s head hanging low as he goes back to inspecting his fingers. “I don’t know,” he replies at last. “It’s easier speaking to you, I guess. And I thought you would tell him anyway.” He pauses. “Why didn’t you?”

“The same reason why you couldn’t call him.” Xabi doesn’t elaborate, but Daniel’s silence means he understands. “I need to know Finns is going to be ok before I break the news to him.” Xabi makes a pause. “I’m afraid of how he’ll react.”

Daniel lets out a mournful laugh. Probably the saddest one Xabi’s ever heard in his life.

“He’ll probably start by murdering me.”

Xabi can’t exactly disagree on that. “What’s your involvement?”

Dan shrugs. “I don’t know. All of it, I guess.”

“What did you do?”

“I ruined his life, ‘s what I did. I broke his heart and then I ran it over with a truck, put it on reverse and crushed it some more. If Stevie wants to put my misery to an end, you should let him. You should let him do whatever the hell he wants with me. If he wants to rip my head off with his bare hands and have it hanged on your living room as a trophy then you should let him, because I’ll sure as fuck have a bloody smile on my face, ‘cause that’s what I deserve.”

Xabi feels the beginning of an eye-roll coming but refrains from doing it out of respect. Daniel is overly dramatic and quite possibly deserves to feel every bit as bad as he does right now. He was a dick, that’s not up for argumentation. For some reason, though, Xabi doesn’t feel like pointing fingers and condemning him to an eternity of repentance; oddly enough, he almost offers Daniel a hug.

He doesn’t, though, because they’re not that close and there’s a side of Xabi, a quite loud one, still resenting Daniel an awful lot for promising him one thing and doing a completely different one. Xabi does, however, believe that the Dane’s pain is real, because he knows, as he’s always known, that Daniel's feelings for Finns are true, even if, in his retarded ways, he never learned how to showcase them properly.

It’s hard to remember sometimes that Daniel was only 20 when he met Finns, all impulsiveness and pheromones as opposed to reason and self-possession. Finns was probably the first time he ever truly looked at another human being and thought ‘Hey, I could stick with this guy for more than just one night’. Everyone goes through that phase. It is not easy having to reprogram yourself entirely from night to day to fit into someone else’ life - because, if we’re being honest here, and Xabi is trying to see the situation as impartially as he possibly can, Finns never really gave him a chance at a smooth transition. It was always either his way or no way.

That’s not to say Finns was wrong. He didn’t have to settle for anything less than what he deserved and wanted. He’d been through his reckless phase and under no obligation whatsoever to endure someone else’s rough days. If Daniel decided to oblige, that’s his problem. He knew the rules since the beginning, knew exactly what he was getting himself into.

In all fairness, Daniel never complained. Or at least Xabi’s never heard him complaining, not to him and not to anyone. He never blamed Finns for anything, not for his misbehaviors, not for his growing anguish. He knows exactly how guilty he is of all the shit he’s done and sincerely regrets every single one of his screw-ups afterwards - only he seems to have the memory of a golden fish.

Still, in a world where there’s hardly any sympathy for Daniel whatsoever, it is very easy to overlook the fact he genuinely cares for Finns.

Xabi feels sort-of-but-not-quite bad for him.

He considers offering the other man a word of comfort or something but, before he can come up with anything, Martin returns.

“Happily married, father of two,” he announces around a dismal sigh. “No luck. Still not a single word on Steve.”

“Shit,” Dan mutters and goes back to hiding his face between the palms of his hands.

Martin takes a few steps back and starts waving for Xabi to join him. Eyebrows knit together, he does, although keeping a certain distance just in case. Martin scares the shit out of him.

“What?”

Martin takes a quick look at Dan. “Now that you’re here, I’m gonna take off.”

“Why?”

“Because. I need to go.”

Xabi blinks at him. “Ok. Whatever.”

“No, listen. You have to promise me that you’re going to take care of him.”

“Why? I'm not his friend.”

“You’re fucking heartless, aren’t you?” Martin scolds. “Can’t you see how bad he is? He thinks it’s his fault this happened. He’s falling apart, for God’s sake.”

“I still don’t know what I have to do with that. If you care so much, why don’t you stay with him?”

Martin exhales warily and Xabi notices, for the first time, how completely drained he looks. His eyes are deep and dark, his mouth seems to have been frozen into a dismal curve downwards. Granted, Xabi’s never had that many encounters with Martin before - thank God - but the little he knows is - well, nothing like this. He’s supposed to be lively and careless and not give a flying shit about anything. But apparently he does have a heart somewhere in there. And one that aches for Daniel, it seems.

“He knows I’m on his side regardless, all right? I don’t have a good relationship with his bi - with _Steve_ , and I have never been very kind with them, so I don’t think he really gives a shit about any comfort I might have to offer him right now. He needs someone who won’t be automatically biased towards him to look him in the eye and say it’s not his fault, otherwise he’ll just continue to beat himself up. I don’t like Steve, never have, but that doesn’t mean I want the man dead. I especially don’t want to see Dan hurt. So please, can you stay with him and make sure he won’t be doing anything stupid out of guilt?”

Xabi is momentarily taken off balance. Did Martin really just use the word _please_?

“Ok,” Xabi says, because there’s really nothing else he can answer other than that. He would have to be inhuman - or Steven - not to feel any compassion right now.

“Thank you,” Martin says, touching his shoulder lightly before returning to Daniel.

Xabi watches, deadpanned and not entirely sure he fully understands the meaning of what just happened, as the Slovakian kneels before his friend and lifts his chin up gently.

“Hey…” Martin says, caressing the side of Daniel’s face. “Stop crying, Danny. Tears don’t look good on you.”

“Fuck off, Martin.” The Dane turns his face away and pushes Martin’s hand off of him.

“He’s going to be all right. Believe me. I know he will.”

“How do you even know that?”

“I was with him, remember? I know what I saw.”

“What if his head injury was worse than it seemed? What if he had a cardiac arrest? It’s been fucking _hours_ , Martin, and they still haven’t said anything!”

“And that’s a good thing. If it was serious we would’ve heard something by now.”

Daniel opens his mouth to protest but closes it again. Xabi has to give it to Martin on that one; it actually makes a lot of sense. Discreetly, he lets go of a relieved sigh himself.

“Look, I have to go, ok?” Martin continues.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“I was up all night, Daniel, I’m sticky and gross and I still have things to do before I can get some rest.”

Daniel looks sadly at Martin, then nods. “All right. You should go. Thanks for sitting here with me all night.”

“I’d stay more if I could. I’ll be back later, if you want me to.”

“Don’t worry. You should go get some sleep.”

“Call me if there’s news?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Ok.” Martin stands up then leans forward, pulling Dan’s face towards him, and plants a chaste kiss on his lips. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, ok, Danny?”

“Martin,” the Dane says, wrapping his arms around his friend and pulling him down for a tight, if somewhat awkward, embrace. Xabi has to look away; it’s like he’s intruding a very personal moment there. Dan whispers something on Martin’s ear that he can’t hear and then kisses him on the cheek. Martin pulls away a moment later with a smile on his face that is… sweet, actually. He wasn’t aware that Martin Skrtel even knew sweet. Xabi has a feeling he’s witnessing history here.

When he’s gone, Xabi sits back next to Dan, completely unsure of what to say. It’s only when Daniel locks eyes with him that he understands that there doesn’t need to be words at all.

They fall back in silence and wait.

x-x-x

Finns is dead.

At least that is what it feels like, if you can even feel something when you die. Maybe he did. Part of him, anyway. He attempts to open his eyes and inspect his surroundings but his eyelids are putting up an honest fight.

His brain is definitely not entirely functional, but Finns reckons you don’t actually feel your head ache and your throat dry and a ridiculous awful taste in your mouth when you’re dead. So it’s safe to say that he is not. Finns is not clear whether he finds that necessarily a good thing yet.

“Here,” says a voice coming seemingly out of nowhere and pushing something against his lips. It’s cold and wet. “Have some water.”

Finns drinks it as though his life hangs on it. It quite possibly does.

“Calm down,” the voice speaks again, pulling the water away. Finns manages an incomprehensible grumble in protest. “You don’t want to drink so fast. Here, a little bit more. There you go. Don’t swallow that quickly or you might gag.”

The effort of pulling his head up enough to get the water down his throat leaves Finns breathless and exhausted. His head hurts. As he lifts one hand to the spot, he realizes there’s a bandage there.

Things slowly start to come into focus. The man standing next to him is wearing a white coat. Steve can’t really see his face properly just yet - it’s all just a big blur - but either that man is a doctor or an angel. He doesn’t think he’d go to heaven if he were really dead, so that means he’s in a hospital then.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks in an accent that sounds slightly familiar, but not quite.

Finns wets his lips before speaking. It’s like licking sandpaper. “Wonderful,” he says, or he means to say. He’s sure what came out was probably slightly different.

The doctor chuckles. “Nice to see you’re in a good mood. Do you remember anything about how you got here?”

“Not entirely.” He slurs like he’s drunk. “Are you my doctor?”

“Not yet.”

Finns scrunches his face up, making an effort to fix his sight. He can’t really make out the lines of his face, but he is definitely smiling. Finns can see the white of his teeth. And that accent… Where the hell is that from?

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“We need to have a conversation. Not now. In a while. Then we’ll see whether I’ll be your doctor or not.”

“… what?”

“Don’t worry about that now, Mr. Finnan.” The man places a gentle hand on Finns’ shoulder, gives him a little squeeze. “Just concentrate on getting better. I understand you’re probably experiencing a little confusion. You had a concussion. But your actual doctor will be able to explain it to you better than me.”

Wait… So, he’s a doctor, but he’s not _actually_ a doctor? What is that even supposed to mean? It’s hard to tell whether the conversation doesn’t make any sense because he’s indeed experiencing _confusion_ or because that man is simply saying bollocks.

And honestly, that bloody accent. It’s starting to get on Finns’ nerves. It sounds nothing like Scouse.

“There’s something I need to ask you, first,” the doctor starts again when Finns doesn’t reply. “There are people here to see you. They have been waiting outside all night, pestering the hell out of our staff.”

 _Shit_ , Finns thinks. For a moment there he had completely forgotten about _people_. It was just him, the pain in his head and this crazy doctor’s unidentifiable accent. Finns can’t think of any _people_ he’d want to see right now. _People_ are nothing but trouble.

“Xabi Alonso and Daniel Agger,” the doctor tells him. Finns would give him an eye roll if he could. “Ring any bells?”

“No,” he says, curtly.

“No?” The doctor sounds surprised. “Are you sure? They seemed very determined.”

“Tell them to go away.”

The doctor goes quiet for a moment. Steve takes the opportunity to try and get his face into focus. He’s not smiling anymore, but it’s still like trying to see through a very dusty, very hazy glass.

“Is there any particular reason why you don’t want to see them? Should we call the security?”

“Are you asking if they have anything to do with why I ended up here?”

“Yes.”

“No. No, they don’t. I just don’t want to see them.”

“Very well. Your wish is my command.” There’s the white of his teeth again. “If I may ask, though. So far we’ve shared very little of your condition with them. Is it ok if I at least give them an update? In my experience, it will be a lot easier to convince them to leave if they at least know that you’re going to be fine.”

Finns hesitates. Xabi would walk away if he were told to do so. Daniel would probably try to break in at any cost. He is definitely not in the mood for a fuss. Is it too much to ask to just be left in peace for a little while?

“Whatever,” he says at last. “Just make sure they don’t get anywhere near here.”

“Will do. Your doctor will be with you in a second, Mr. Finnan.” The smile again. “And I’ll be back later. Have some rest for now.”

Silence takes over once more and Finns breathes out slowly. He quickly tries to push away the thoughts of Daniel and Xabi and the night before. His only goal for now is to figure out where the hell that accent is from. That is everything needs to focus on at the moment.

x-x-x

Sergio announces that he’s got nothing but beer and old Chinese takeaway in his fridge - he says it’s because he forgot to go grocery shopping this week, but Fernando knows that he probably never goes shopping. His fridge is merely decorative in the kitchen. As is probably the stove. Sergio seems to be the kind of bloke who spends more nights away than he does at home. After taking a quick glance at what he looks like in his underwear, Fernando believes that he will never run out of houses to have breakfasts at.

He takes them to a little diner close by, offers to pay for the breakfast. Fernando tries to say that he doesn’t have to, that is probably best if he just goes home, but Sergio insists.

The place is packed with young couples who have spent the night together. The two of them don’t exactly look out of place, but Fernando knows they are: everyone else seems happy and comfortable and established, not new and nervy and sad.

Well, he is nervy and sad anyway. Sergio is radiant. Fernando wonders if that’s default status for the other man.

He’s been staring blankly at nothing in particular for a while when he realizes that Sergio has been talking to him.

Fernando blinks him back into focus. “What?”

“Pancakes,” Sergio says, pointing to his plate with his fork. Fernando has a pile of untouched pancakes growing cold there. “Don’t you like it? You could’ve ordered something else.”

“I like pancakes,” he says, a little drowsily. “Pancakes are fine.” His voice is still hoarse and betraying all his gloominess.

“Are you not hungry, then?”

“Yes. No. A little. I don’t know.” Fernando sighs at his utter inability to form a proper thought. Sergio seems to find it amusing. “I’m sorry. It’s not the pancakes. They smell wonderful. I’m sure these are great pancakes.”

“Don’t you at least want to try it?”

“I’m not sure I can stomach to eat anything. I don’t want to insult you by throwing up.”

“It won’t insult me.”

“But it will still be gross.”

“That’s true.” They pause. Sergio looks down at his own nearly empty plate, then back at Fernando’s still full one, then up at his eyes. “If you’re not going to eat them -”

“You can have it.” Fernando pushes his plate towards the other man and watches as Sergio’s lips break into one of those fantastically white and toothy grins of his.

“Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t want a perfectly good plate of pancakes to go to waste.”

“You’d have to be crazy to want that.”

They fall back into quietness, the only sounds breaking the ice being that of Sergio’s fork and knife dragging against the porcelain of his plate. Fernando seems to be the only one to whom the lack of interaction is awkward, though. Every time their eyes meet, he has to look away to keep from blushing. Sergio, on the other hand, grins and winks. Granted, Sergio does seem to be a lot more interested in the food than he is in Fernando right now, something for which he is incredibly grateful.

“How’s the hangover?” Sergio finally asks.

“It could be worse, I guess.”

“You were completely out of your mind last night.”

It's brilliant to hear confirmation to what he already suspected. He was hoping they could end this morning without actually having to talk about the events of the past night and, for a moment there, it almost seemed like they could, but it was too much to ask. You can’t go batshit insane, fuck someone and then pretend it never happened. “I’m sorry,” he says, around a sigh.

“Sorry for what?”

“For everything, I guess.”

“That’s ok. We all have our low moments.”

Fernando hesitates. “How low was I?”

“You don’t remember?” The Spaniard shakes his head timidly. “Well, you were crying.”

Oh, God. _Crying_. Fernando scrubs his face with his hands. Is there any way it can get worse than _crying_?

“That’s ok, though,” Sergio adds, probably noticing his embarrassment. “I don’t really know what happened, but you seemed pretty sad.”

“I was,” he agrees. “But, God… Crying? Are you sure?”

“My shirt is probably still wet, if you’d like to check it out.”

“I’m so sorry, Sergio.”

“I don’t mind. It was my idea to get you out of Mercy.”

The only reason why Fernando doesn’t think that sounds extremely jerky is because he is fully aware of what he was looking for when he left his flat. So even if Sergio took advantage of a man completely out of his own mind, it was because said man was absolutely willing, and not only because he was drunk out of his ass. Fernando knows what he gets like once he sets his mind around something.

He wanted to have a fuck and was going to end up with someone anyway. He should probably be grateful that it was Sergio after all.

“I hope I didn’t throw up on you,” Fernando says.

Sergio grins. “No, thank God.”

“That would’ve definitely been the lowest point of my life.”

“You must have a pretty decent life if throwing up on someone would be your lowest,” the other man shakes his head. “That is not even close to my lowest.”

“I’ve thrown up on people before. Just not… You know… _During_.”

“During what?”

Fernando regards him strangely. Is Sergio really that slow or is he trying to make the conversation even weirder than it already is? “Sex,” he says.

Sergio cocks him an eyebrow. “What?”

The Spaniard looks around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping on their ridiculous conversation. “Throwing up during sex. That’s awful. I’m glad I didn’t. But crying is not so far off, I don’t think.”

“Wait. You think we had sex?”

Fernando deadpans. “We didn’t?”

“Of course not!” Sergio sounds rather indignant. “No offense, Fernando, you’re really hot, but you were very bad last night. Your state, I mean. I like my partners to be fully awake and as little drunk as possible so that they can remember every detail afterwards. I don’t fuck people unless they want to be fucked.”

Well. He couldn’t have seen that coming.

“But… but…” Fernando stammers, confused. “I was naked. When I woke up. _In your bed_ ”

“I only took off your shoes and your shirt, and only because you had spilled stuff all over yourself.” Fernando makes a face. “The rest you did all by yourself. We didn’t even sleep in the same room. I took the couch.”

“Are you… sure?”

“I wasn’t drunk. I think I would remember.”

“No, I - God.” He looks away for a moment, at the other couples chatting and laughing and looking at each other as though they can barely keep their hands off of one another. Fernando couldn’t be more relieved to find out that he and Sergio didn’t do anything, but now he feels stupid as well. His cheeks are probably starting to grow red already.

“You suggested it, you know. Several times,” Sergio adds. “But I didn’t think it was right.”

“I was very, _very_ drunk.”

“I figured there was a chance you might regret it in the morning. Also because it seemed like there was a purpose behind your intentions and, not to seem cocky or anything, but I’m no one's petty fuck.”

“And you really shouldn’t be. You’re too handsome to be someone’s petty fuck.” Sergio smiles again and Fernando finally manages to twist his lips up in a manner that he doesn’t think make him look completely awful. “I’m still sorry, though.”

“Nothing to apologize for. You looked like you needed a friend.”

 _Clearly_ , Fernando thinks, _or I would’ve ended up getting raped or something_. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He gives Fernando a wink and goes back to eating his pancake.

It’s like a million pounds have been lifted off his shoulders. It doesn’t solve any of his problems but at least it doesn’t give him a new one.

“Would you like to talk about it, though?” Sergio asks after a moment.

“About what?”

“Your problem. The reason why you were the way you were last night. I figured it has something to do with Daniel, but I couldn’t understand half of what you were saying. Do you know how fast you talk when you’re drunk?”

Fernando looks down. “I’m not sure there’s really much to talk about.”

“Did he dump you?”

“No. I dumped him. Sort of.”

Sergio frowns. “Really?

“He’s a jerk.”

“No one’s arguing that.”

Fernando regards the other man pensively. “Did you know that he’s seeing your guy?”

“My guy?”

“Yeah. Finns.”

Sergio laughs softly. “He’s not my guy.”

“He said the same thing, but you two looked very _intimate_ up in the Go-Go cage.”

The grin that stretches across Sergio’s face is one of sheer pride. “Well… We did look very hot. But there’s really nothing between us. There’s never been. I was into him, once, but Stevie scared me away and I never went back there. Finns is just a friend.”

“Oh,” Fernando says.

“And of course I know he’s seeing Daniel.”

“You do?” he asks, eyebrows gathering in.

Sergio looks at him as though he’s crazy or something. “Obviously.”

“Who else knows?”

He shrugs. “Everyone?”

“ _Everyone_? Even Xabi?”

“Especially Xabi.”

“But that’s impossible,” Fernando says, decidedly, after musing over the idea for a moment, a conclusion that prompts Sergio to give him the wary crazy look again. “He would’ve told me if he knew.”

“Wait - Xabi knew you were going out with Daniel?”

“Yes.”

“Fernando… How long have you been seeing Daniel, exactly?”

“I don’t know, a month or so.”

Sergio’s eyebrows shoot up in astonishment. “Wow,” he says, slumping back against his seat. “That is royally fucked up.” The DJ shakes his head. “If Stevie finds out that Xabi knew about this and kept it a secret…”

“What does Stevie have to do with anything?”

“Stevie is Finns’ body guard, although he prefers the term _best friend_.”

“… and?”

“You seriously don’t see the problem here?”

“I see many problems here, but none that might concern Xabi’s husband. I was with Daniel and he cheated on me with Finns. If they should be feeling bad for someone it should be me.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Sergio says, waving his hands in the air. “Cheated on _you_ with _Finns_?”

“Yes. I ran into him yesterday when I went to the studio - which, by the way, Daniel told me _no one_ was ever allowed to go to, the sodden bastard, and surprise! Finns was there! Honestly, I had some sympathy for the man when Xabi told me their story, I thought it was really noble of him to stick by his friend even though he had been messed up with, but you know what? He probably deserved it! He was all smug and cocky and acted like a real jerk. I can see how Stevie would definitely prefer Xabi over him. And sleeping with _my_ boyfriend now! Asshole.”

The face Sergio gives him is something between shocked and totally amused, like his mouth can’t decide whether to drop open or to burst into laughter. “My God,” he mutters after a moment. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

Fernando frowns. “Don’t know anything about what?”

“About anything! Jesus! Were you actually _dating_ Daniel?”

“Well…” Fernando shrugs, his eyes flickering away for a moment. “It was never official, I suppose. No one ever brought the word ‘boyfriends’ up, but it’s what we were doing.”

“Oh, Fernando…” The other man shakes his head apologetically. Sergio takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Darling, darling boy… I have some bad news for you.”

x-x-x

Xabi finds Daniel standing outside the hospital, desperately trying to light up a cigarette.

The Spaniard stuff his hands in his pockets and feels the cold metal of his lighter in there. He doesn’t smoke - hasn’t for almost ten years now. Still, sometimes just to know that he has an option is enough to satiate his need.

Dan was basically thrown out of the hospital by two bodyguards who looked more like two fully grown bears after a doctor came to inform them that ‘ _Mr. Finnan_ has kindly requested that you leave. He has made it very clear that he won’t be authorizing visits’. The Dane didn’t even hear the part where Finns is okay, awake and fully responsive; he was already yelling and trying to force his way in.

His hands are shaky and the wind keeps blowing his fire off. Daniel’s the perfect picture of misery right now. To be honest, Xabi kind of pities him.

“Piece of shit!” Dan grunts, throwing the lighter away. He watches as it falls in the middle of the bushes and then exhales. “Fuck. That was my only lighter.”

“Here,” Xabi says, tossing Daniel his own lighter. The other man looks momentarily startled, like he hadn’t even noticed he had company.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he says, lighting up the cigarette and taking out a long, shaky drag.

“I don’t.”

“Thanks,” he says, handing it back to the Spaniard.

“You should go home, Daniel.”

“Like fuck I will.”

“They’re not gonna let you in.”

“I don’t care. Even if I have to stand outside and wait until he comes out, I won’t fucking go anywhere.”

Xabi wonders why the hell exactly did he promise Martin he would look after Daniel. Clearly he’s not very into being reasonable. “He doesn’t want to see you,” he says, calmly.

“Fuck him.” Daniel almost spits the words out. His face is crumpled like he’s angry, bit his eyes are dead nervous.

“Well, that sounds very reasonable. It’s almost like Finns has no reason whatsoever to be mad at you. What could you have possibly done to provoke that sort of reaction?”

Xabi’s irony seems to melt a little of the younger man’s ironclad resolve. Dan takes another drag from his cigarette and looks down, inspecting his own shoes. “He can’t do that,” he speaks, almost a whisper.

“Says who? Not the guy who cheated on him and is not his boyfriend anymore, I hope.”

Daniel doesn’t say anything and for a brief second Xabi feels almost guilty to be throwing these things at him in a moment of vulnerability.

Sighing once more, the Spaniard shakes his head. “He’s in a hospital bed, Dan,” he starts again, gently this time. “The doctor said he’ll be okay, but, obviously, he’s not happy. You can’t be angry at him right now.”

“I’m not angry.”

“You sound angry.”

“I’m not -” Dan stops, huffs out in frustration. “I’m angry at myself. It’s my fault.”

“You are to be blamed for a lot of things, Daniel, but this is hardly one of them.”

“I drove him towards this. He was at the fucking woods with Martin, for crying out loud! That’s not him! I made him do it.”

Xabi frowns. “What’s the woods?”

Dan looks slightly embarrassed, still avoiding eye contact. “It’s this place just outside the city, deep in the middle of the woods. No one really goes there unless they’re looking for... It's like a dick supermarket.” Xabi’s eyebrows quirk upwards. “Guys just go there, stand in the middle of the trees and wait for someone to stop. If you like the person, you fuck him, if not, you wait for someone else. And there are obviously all sorts of people trying to take advantage. Dudes selling drugs, alcohol, some prostitutes. Most guys there are awful and don't know how to take no for an answer. Things get pretty nasty.”

Xabi’s left speechless for a spell. He wonders what Steven would say if he knew his best friend had been to _the woods_. He wonders if Steven even knows what that is. He certainly hopes not. Although admittedly that’s probably something every gay man who grew up in Liverpool is aware of. Still, he can’t really see Steven _not_ being very, _very_ irate to find out his friend has been to a ‘dick supermarket’, as Daniel had so cleverly put it.

“Sounds like it’s a lovely place.”

“Sounds like it’s the kind of place a man like Steve would never fucking set foot on. Not even _I_ like it there. It’s Martin’s thing, he’s into that sort of stuff. But Martin’s crazy. Steve’s not. It’s my fault he got like that. God, I don’t even want to _think_ what those fucking assholes did to him while -”

“Ok, stop,” Xabi interrupts before he has the chance to elaborate further. He doesn’t want to imagine what kind of thing might’ve happened to Finns either. The fact he ended up at the hospital is bad enough. Taking a deep breath, he ploughs on. “Whatever happened, happened. It’s no use to think about it. Steven would murder me if he ever heard me saying this, but - You can’t control everything, Daniel. You _can_ control if you’re going to cheat on your partner, or whether you’re going to be honest about it or act like a dick for over a month. That is up to you. But if he’s going to get drunk out of his head and bugger off to some… outdoor brothel-like thing? That is out of your hands, unfortunately. It would be much easier for everyone if it could all just be blamed on you.”

Daniel finally meets his eyes again and, although clearly conflicted, he looks almost thankful. “I need to see him, Xabi,” he says, in a pleading tone. “I need to tell him how sorry I am and I need him to listen. I need to know he’s okay, that those guys didn’t - I can’t even fucking say it outloud.”

“That is something else that’s out of your hands, Daniel. It’s his decision, not yours. After everything, the least you can do is respect his wish.”

“What would you fucking have me do, then? I can’t go inside to see him, can’t wait for him here, he’s kicked me out of the fucking flat. I don’t know what else to do!”

“Go home, pack your things, leave.”

“He said I wasn’t supposed to go back there. That he would arrange for my things to be delivered at the studio.”

“That was before. Now I’m pretty sure that, when he gets out of here, he’ll be as grateful as possible for not having to go through all your stuff. It will break his heart all over again.”

For a moment there it looks like Daniel’s about to say something, but he then lifts the cigarette back to his mouth and says nothing instead.

“Give him some time, Dan,” Xabi continues, feeling that this is the moment to convince him to go peacefully. “Let him breathe. If he finds it in him to forgive you, it won’t be now and definitely not with you pressuring him to do so.”

Dan regards Xabi for a moment before taking one last drag out of his cigarette. “What are you going to do?”

“Me?” Xabi gets that vertiginous shudder back at the pit of his stomach. “I have to call my lawyer and have him prepare the divorce papers and then I’ll go tell my husband that his best friend has been hospitalized.”

The Dane offers him a sad little smile. It seems that he and Daniel have found a weird sort of bonding. Even though they don’t necessarily approve of each other’s behaviors - well, he doesn’t approve Daniel’s anyway - they still share an impossible comprehension. They can sympathize with each other’s causes. Xabi is not ready to forgive his attitude towards Finns and Fernando (consequently putting his marriage in a very bad position), but he can appreciate the feeling here. Any kind of encouragement he can get before facing the beast is welcome.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks, after a spell of companionable silence he hesitated to break. In amidst the madness that has become his life in the last couple of days, any second of peace is valuable. “Finns’ place in on the way to Steven’s work, anyway. I can drop you off there, if you want to start packing.”

Daniel ponders over the offer for a second. “Nah,” he finally replies. “I will take your advice this time, but there’s something I need to do first. You can go ahead.”

“Daniel, for the love of God, quit the stupid act, will you?” Xabi pleads. “They are not going to let you in and Finns won’t feel sorry when they take you to the police. Don’t forget you’ve got no attorneys on your side anymore.”

“Relax, Alonso. I won’t break in. I’ll walk away. There’s a place I need to go first - and it is _not_ inside that hospital. Don’t worry.”

Not able to shake off completely the suspicion - it’s Daniel, after all, master of broken promises - Xabi decides to let it go. He did tell Skrtel that he’d watch over the Dane, but he’s not his mother and right now he has his own private drama to attend to. “Fine. I hope you know what you’re doing. I have to go.”

“Xabi,” the other man calls before he can leave. When the Spaniard turns, Daniel smiles again, only this time it’s warm and affectionate, despite still not quite meeting his eyes. This, Xabi thinks, is the kind of thing Finns saw in him, why he fell in love with a man who had absolutely nothing to do with him. “Thank you,” the Dane says.

Xabi returns the smile, gives him a little nod and goes. The two of them are off to have what will probably be the longest day of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note on ~~the woods~~: I didn't just make that whole thing up. I watched a movie that had something like that, except it was near a lake and not necessarily a bad thing. Weird things could happen and there were lots of skeevy looking men, but it wasn't perceived as a bad place for a guy to go and have some random sex. Just imagine tons of gay men walking around a wood-like place, standing in dark corners, entertaining themselves to show off for other guys walking by and waiting for one - or more - to stop by and, well. Join in. Anyone could stop by and watch or participate. It was literally out in the open, just behind bushes and trees and stuff. At times, a guy would get jumped and harassed... That's basically what it was. 
> 
> I'm sure there are places like that for all sorts of people in real life, I just doubt they exist in big cities such as Liverpool. Let's pretend, ok? :) I also allowed myself some creative freedom here and turned it into the sort of place where drug dealers, pimps and weirdos and pedos in general could go to do their thing in moderate anonymity, therefore turning it into not such a safe or even healthy environment - perfect for someone as adventurous as Martin, not so much for a tidy boy like Steve.


	17. You can lay with me so it doesn't hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a question for you guys. What do you prefer: longer chapters (say, ~15k words) or shorter chapters (~7k)? Do you like reading so many words or does that bother you? I'm considering merging two chapters together but I'm afraid it will probably be too long, not sure anyone's interested in having that much to read, so... What do you think?
> 
> As always, please forgive me for all the mistakes you will certainly find! They're all mine as the story hasn't been beta'ed and, as you probably already know (but I have the need to remind you just in case), English is not my first language. :/
> 
> We're heading towards the finale now very shortly! Your feedback is more than welcome at this point. :) I'm really interested in what you guys thinks! And also - thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's been reading this!

Stevie hears the _click click click_ of Alex’s heels outside. She’s a wonderful secretary, but those heels can be really distracting. It’s _click, click, click_ to one side, _click, click, click_ to the other… Stevie doesn’t think Alex has ever paced around as much as she has this morning. And his attention span right now is just about the same as a squirrel’s, so… Maybe the problem is not so much in Alex and her heels after all, but still. Conditions need to be perfect if he means to do anything productive today.

If Stevie didn’t think that asking her to wear different shoes would be something close to asking her to relinquish a part of her soul, he would determine she started wearing sneakers for work. The woman does look incredible with her long legs in those shoes, though, he has to admit. And if Stevie’s being completely honest, he enjoys being the envy of the office with his ridiculously stunning secretary. 

The _click, click, click_ gets louder and Stevie grunts in annoyance. Then there’s a soft knock on the door and Alex’s blond head pops in. “Mr. Gerrard,” she says. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Stevie exhales loudly. “Can you please tell whoever it is to come back later? I have too much to do, if I stop now I’ll never finish in time.”

“Sir,” Alex continues. “It’s your husband.”

“Xabi’s here?” Alex nods. “Why?” She shrugs. "Send him in.”

The woman waves her hand and seconds later Xabi walks in. Stevie pushes his chair away from the desk and stands to his feet, eying his husband up and down as he approaches, almost expecting to see something wrong.

“Hi,” Xabi says, a short little smile that doesn’t exactly meet his eyes.

Stevie pulls him closer, holds his face between his hands and plants a soft kiss on his husband’s lips. “What are you doing here? Did you burn down the apartment?”

“No,” he answers, but doesn’t seem to find the joke funny at all.

“Why, then? Not that I don’t appreciate the visit, but you never come here.” Another kiss. “You left really early this morning, didn’t you?”

Xabi draws the air in slowly, pushes Stevie’s hands away gently and takes a step back. “Yeah, about that. It’s why I’m here.”

Stevie already has a sinking feeling about this. For just the briefest of seconds there he allowed himself to think that his day might take on a turn to the best with Xabi showing for a visit, but that would be asking too much, wouldn’t it? He lets his shoulders drop, frustrated. “What is it?” 

The Spaniard is pointedly not meeting his eyes, which is worrisome in a whole new level. Stevie’s heart immediately starts pounding with something that, in the absence of a stronger word, he would call panic. Xabi is either fine or stoic. When Xabi gets weird and nervous, it’s usually for a very bad reason. “Xabi,” he demands when the other man doesn’t say anything.

Taking a shuddering breath, Xabi starts, “I was at the hospital.”

“Hospital? That’s where you were all morning?” Xabi nods. “What were you doing at a hospital? Are you ok? Did you get hurt? Are you feeling ill?” Xabi’s head started shaking at the first question, but Stevie kept on shooting them, one after the other.

“It’s not me, Steven. I’m ok,” he finally says.

Stevie’s eyebrows knit together. “What were you doing there, then?”

“Boy, this is hard… I think it would be easier if it was me.” Xabi mutters under his breath, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Stevie knows he sometimes carry his lighter in his pocket, when he’s particularly distressed. It calms him down, supposedly. Xabi swears he hasn’t put a cigarette in his mouth for ten years and Stevie believes him, as improbable as it might sound, because it’s Xabi, and Xabi never lies to him. He’s got no reason to. “I received a call at five in the morning today. From Daniel.” Xabi’s voice trails off for a moment, his eyebrows gathering like it’s actually hard to say whatever it is that he wants to. Stevie is not even blinking. “It’s Finns.”

It takes ages for the information to process. It’s a hell of a long way from his ears to his brain and then straight to his chest, where a bubble of apprehension is immediately formed. “Finns is in a hospital?” Xabi nods, sadly. “W-why?”

“I don’t really know the details. Apparently he was in some kind of fight.”

“Fight? What do you mean, fight? Don’t tell me that that _bloody son of a bitch_ -” Stevie’s voice escalates until he is practically screaming, his face feeling hot from the rising anger, but Xabi raises his hands in the air in a desperate move to stop him.

“It wasn’t Daniel, Steven. He had nothing to do with it. They broke up. Finns kicked him out, they weren’t even together when it happened. Daniel called me because Martin called him first..”

“Martin? Why would fucking Martin know about Finns?”

“He’s the one who took him to the hospital.”

“Why in hell’s name was Stephen with that wanker?” It’s nearly imperceptible, but Stevie notices Xabi flinching a little at the sound of Finns’ first name. It’s the End of Time signal, when he resorts to first name with Finns. Their most epic fights were all battled between Steven and Stephen, which can get quite confusing if you’re not paying attention. During the months they spent not-speaking after the horrible break-up, he only referred to Finns as Stephen. It left Xabi somewhat traumatized. 

“They weren’t together, they just happened to be at the same place.”

“And what place was that?”

Xabi wavers. “The woods.”

“The - what?!” Stevie roars in a high-pitched tone. “What the _fuck_ was Stephen doing at the bloody woods?!” 

“I don’t know, Steven.” Xabi sounds so very tired and also perhaps resigned to the fact he’s going to get yelled at.

“You don’t seem to know anything, do you? What were you doing at the hospital all morning? Playing cards with that twat?” The minute the words leave his mouth, Stevie knows he’s acting like a complete asshole, but it is simply impossible to avoid. He’s on the verge of freaking out any second now and words are just pouring out as they come. Frankly, he’s too desperate to even care right this moment.

Xabi opens his mouth to answer, but whatever reply he had in mind morphs into another dismal sigh. “I know he had a head injury and that he passed out while a nurse was getting him stitched up. Also that he was apparently very drunk. The doctor said he’s awake and that he’s going to be fine, but that’s all. Finns said he wasn’t going to see us and didn’t authorize them to share information. Since we’re not family…” the Spaniard trails off.

“He kicked you out?”

“Something like that. Well, with Daniel it was a little more literal. He tried to break in and security got him out by force.”

Stevie starts pacing around, one hand on his waist, the other covering his mouth. There’s too much going through his head all at the same time, it’s hard to figure out what to focus on. When he finally stops, the first thing that comes to his mind is, “You knew about this since five in the morning and you didn’t think it was important to tell me?” 

Xabi looks wanly at him. It’s like he was just waiting for that precise question to arise. “I’m sorry,” he starts. “I just sat there until I had news on how he was. I was afraid of telling you before I knew he would be ok.”

“No,” Steven replies, shaking his head fiercely. “You didn’t want me there because you knew I’d be fucking angry. You were jealous of Stephen last night.”

“Steven -”

“For fuck’s sake, Xabi! My best friend is in a fucking hospital and the first thing you think about is yourself?! What, did you think I’d file for a fucking divorce if something happened to him?”

Xabi’s mouth says, “Of course not,” quietly, but his eyes and the way he presses his lips into a hard, thin line afterwards say the complete opposite. “I was scared, Steven. Scared for Finns and for you.”

“Right. Scared.” Steven walks around his desk, kicks his computer off and puts on his jacket. “You’ve been scared about many things lately. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”

“The matter with _me_?” Xabi replies, more vividly this time. “Well, have you stopped to think that the matter with me is that my marriage is suddenly in some sort of crisis and I don’t even know why?”

“That’s the whole fucking problem, isn’t it?” Stevie says, while typing away angrily on his phone. “There’s no bloody crisis in your marriage. If you hadn’t decided to take sides in an issue that is not even yours, none of this would be happening right now. Stephen wouldn’t be in a hospital and I wouldn’t be fucking yelling at you!”

“Because it’s all my fault. Of course.”

“I don’t have time for this. I need to go see Stephen. Is he at the Royal?”

“Yes.”

Steven walks by his husband like a storm, doesn’t even bat Xabi an eyelid. “Alex, please cancel all my appointments for the day, yeah? If anything urgent comes up, have them call my number, but only if it’s really important.”

“Sure,” the woman says, a little uncertain. “But what about -”

“I’ll let you know if I’ll be coming back later. That’s all.”

The last thing he sees before the elevator door shuts is Xabi, waving him a sad goodbye from his office’s entrance. Stevie doesn’t return the gesture.

x-x-x

_“Please, leave your message after the beep.”_

Daniel sighs upon getting voice mail for the millionth time today. Fernando didn’t even bother recording a personal message. It just makes it all the more frustrating that he’s literally speaking to a machine.

“Nando, I know you’re angry,” he starts, wearily. “But, please, I need to see you. You have to let me explain. God, I - I had a horrible day, Fernando. I just want to see you. Just for a second. Please, call me back.”

The elevator door opens and Dan steps in. By now, his hope of hearing back from Fernando has begun to wane. He stopped by the Spaniard’s apartment before heading to Steve’s, but there was no one there. Or if there was, he simply remained very quiet until Daniel gave up. The Dane sat down on the hallway and waited for an hour, time during which he ringed Fernando at least twenty times, all to no avail. If this is a message Fernando’s trying to get through without actually having to deliver it himself, then it is goddamn clear.

Daniel’s exhausted and desperate and hungry and sick and he hasn’t felt this much in need of a snort in years. For once he would like to be one of those people who have the capacity to sit down and function without feeling the pressure hovering above their heads, or like blood will start pouring out of his eyes if he doesn’t do something. 

He wishes he could be more like Martin. Martin would waltz his way through all this crap with a bloody smile on his face and not a care in the world. Having a heart can be a real bitch sometimes.

Steve’s apartment is a mess. There are leftovers and empty bottles and some clothes - all his, obviously - scattered about the place. It’s like a hurricane stopped by for a visit and swept Steve away with it, dropping him at the woods. Steve’s pristine home, as the rest of his life, it seems, has been completely torn apart and Daniel can’t help but feel this is all his doing. This mess is only the smallest part of a much bigger and uglier picture that includes Steve lying in a hospital bed. 

Daniel walks over to the fridge, takes out a bottle of wine and pours himself a generous dose. He should clean up everything, but he simply doesn’t have enough strength. 

The bedroom is even worse than the living room. Steve has literally taken everything that belongs to him and thrown out of the closet. It breaks Dan’s heart a little further, but it’s not like he could expect anything different. He is out of Steve’s life. For good. That burning sensation behind his eyelids return; the goddamn tears are back. They haven’t stopped coming all night. It’s like someone turned a fucking tap on in his head. He’s never been a crier, but all of a sudden he can’t seem to do anything else. He guesses that’s what powerlessness does to a person. When you can’t do anything else, crying is all there is left.

Dan takes out his phone, checks to see if there are any new messages. Xabi promised to inform him if he heard anything from the hospital. Predictably, though, there’s nothing.

He tries Fernando again, just because.

“ _Please, leave your message after the beep._ ”

This time he doesn’t even say anything, just breathes on the phone for a moment, imagines Fernando listening to him on the other side, imagines he’s here, holding him, telling him that it will be ok. Then he hangs up and lies down on the bed because it is all too much. He just needs five minutes to close his eyes and get his shit together before he starts packing. 

Daniel wakes up an hour later with the sound of movement in the living room. He can barely keep his eyes open, but for a moment he ignores all the probabilities and believes it is Steve out there, back from the hospital, and he jumps out of bed with an enthusiasm he didn’t even know he still had in him. 

What he finds, however, is not Steve. It would never be Steve, he tells himself. Steve is injured, dying, for all he knows. Just as quick as it came, his purpose dies out. Daniel lets out a deflated exhale as he finds Martin, surrounded by cardboard boxes.

“Dan,” his friend greets him merrily. “I’m here playing a game with myself, trying to separate what belongs to you and what belongs to the bitc- to Steve, sorry. Wanna check out my score?”

With slow steps, Dan joins him in the living room and crashes down on the couch. “What are you doing here, Martin?”

“Helping, of course,” the other man says, casually gesticulating towards the boxes, some of which seem to be already full. “Figured you’d need it.”

“Who let you in?”

“I did. The door was open, by the way. It could've been something a lot worse than me. I knocked, but no one answered. You weren’t picking up your phone either. Found you asleep and decided to let you get some rest.” Martin offers him a tender and compassionate little grin, one of his secret ones. “You had a bad day.”

Daniel wants to hug Martin and - well, cry some more. He wants to lay his head on someone’s lap and know that he’s not completely alone, that he hasn’t lost everything (yet). But he’s so tired that the message is getting lost somewhere between his brain and his limbs and so he simply doesn’t move, just watches as Martin goes back to sorting things between boxes. 

“Did you speak to Xabi?” he asks, morosely.

“How do you know it was Xabi?”

“He’s the only one who knew I’d be here.”

“Oh,” Martin says. “Well, yeah.”

“Since when do you have his number?”

Martin snorts. “Please. I have the number of every single queen from here to Slovakia.”

“Did he say anything about Steve?”

Martin gives him an apologetic glance - but it’s so fast Dan thinks he might have imagined it. Martin, being sorry about anything Steve related? That would be a first. “No. He did tell me you got kicked out of the hospital, though. That’s a good sign, right?”

“How is that a good sign, Martin?”

“It proves he’s well enough to remember he hates you _and_ demand you don’t get anywhere near him, which is also a demonstration of strength. No dying person would ever do something like that, nor would someone with head issues. He remembers, so he must be ok.”

The fact that Martin actually makes sense doesn’t make the truth of it sting any less. “Well, thank you very fucking much for making me feel better, Martin. Jesus. You can go home now.”

The Slovakian just shrugs. “Just being honest.”

Dan’s incredibly heavy eyelids force his eyes shut once more. He can hear Martin moving stuff around, separating things into the boxes. The little sounds breaking the icy quietness are very comforting, Dan realizes. It keeps him from falling asleep and it also avoids a certain train of thought to lead him back down a very dark path that involves Steve, some twenty dudes with all sorts of disgusting features and the woods.

“You can go lie down, you know,” Martin says. “I can finish this for you.”

Daniel lets out a short, mirthless laugh, but doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m probably gonna have to go through every box.”

“You make it sound like it’s challenging, figuring out your stuff from his.”

“How will you know?”

“Posh, pretentious and boring - his. Cheap, exotic and useless - yours.” Dan’s eyes flow open to fix Martin with a glare. “No mystery.”

Dan wants to counter him, but so far the bastard seems to be getting things pretty much right. He hasn’t touched anything that belongs to Steve, that’s for sure. Daniel had never really realized that the difference between the two of them was so obvious. Not that he agrees with the Slovakian’s definitions, of course - well, not with Steve’s, anyway; his is very close to the real deal. The truth of it hits him hard. What did a guy like Steve see in him, anyway?

Because Martin’s right, Dan limits himself to say, “There’s a lot more in the bedroom.”

“One thing at a time,” Martin replies. After a pause, he continues, “What about Alejandro?”

“Who’s Alejandro?”

“El niño. That’s Spanish for boy,” he grins, all pride. “Sergio taught me a few words.”

“I don’t even want to know in what circumstance Sergio thought that word was relevant. I still don’t know who the fuck you're talking about.”

“Your boy! Blondie.”

Daniel would’ve given him an eyeroll if the mention of Fernando didn’t send a stab straight to his heart. “It’s Fernando.”

“Right. I knew it had something to do with Lady Gaga.” Martin shrugs. “So?”

“So what?”

“Have you spoken to him?”

Dan’s eyes flicker away from Martin as he starts picking the end of a cushion. “I tried,” he says. “He didn’t want to talk to me, though. Didn’t answer my calls, didn’t reply to my messages… I stopped by his place, he wouldn’t even open the door.” Daniel pauses for a painful sigh. “I don’t think he wants to see me again.”

“And you just gave up?”

“What did you want me to do, break in?”

“Well. Yeah.” Daniel eyes Martin awkwardly, like he’s crazy or something. Which, as a matter of fact, he is. Martin doesn’t know the word ‘limit’. To him, breaking the law is just a detail, and not a very important one. “What? Like you’ve never done that before.”

“I don’t break into people’s houses, Martin.”

“No, but you stalk them into submission. Isn’t that how you landed your bit -”

“I am so fucking hitting you if you call Steve a bitch right now.”

“I’m sorry!” Martin exclaims, heatedly. “It’s so hard to stop calling him that. I spent the last four years ignoring the fact he has a name. I’m trying to be respectful, but you know the deal about old habits.”

“Then just shut the fuck up and don’t say anything.”

“No. It’s important. You stalked _Steve_ ,” The Slovakian stresses the name. “Until he opened the door. Am I right?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I hadn’t done anything wrong then. I was just refusing to get ditched. Now I haven’t got anything to go by. I screwed up. If he doesn’t want to see me, then I have to respect that. If I had respected the fact Steve didn’t want anything to do with my ass four years ago he wouldn’t be in a fucking hospital bed right now and I wouldn’t be feeling like this gigantic piece of useless shit. I’ve learned my fucking lesson, Martin.” His explanation turned into a rant midway; by the end of it he was practically screaming, angry. 

Up until that moment, Daniel hadn’t realized that he’d made a decision. Apparently, though, in amidst pain and regret and self-loathing, his heart had been set: Daniel wouldn’t be going after Fernando anymore.

“I thought you said you were in love with him,” Martin replies, calmly.

Dan swallows down hard, looks away again. “I am,” he says, lowly. “It’s not easy to give up. But if I really love him, I should let him go, right?”

“Wrong. If you really love him you knock his fucking door down until he takes you back.”

“What the fuck do you even know about that, Martin?”

“A lot more than you give me credit for.”

The way Martin looks at him, just for the briefest of seconds, is almost painful. They stare levelly at each other, Dan trying to decipher what exactly he meant by it; he’s been paralyzed into a silence that feels suddenly too heavy with implications. Hundreds and hundreds of conversations with Simon are back in his mind in a second and he can hear his friend’s calm voice speaking clearly of how Martin has _feelings_ for him. Daniel never truly believed him. Martin is a lunatic. He has whims and desires and sexual needs, not _feelings_. Right?

_'Why do you think he's so obsessed with you? He's determined to prove everything Steve does is wrong, refuses to even admit he's a human being. Martin likes you, Daniel.'_

“God, you are such an idiot sometimes, Daniel,” the Slovakian breaks the silence and the eye contact, stands up to his feet and takes a seat next to his friend. “Do you honestly want _me_ to tell you how you’re going to suffer a lifetime of pain and yadda yadda yadda if you let him go without a fight? 'Cause, to be honest, I don't really want to do that."

“No,” Daniel replies, honestly, inwardly relieved that they weren’t made to get into subjects that would be hard to get away from afterwards. In a weird, kind of twisted way, Daniel loves Martin, but their relationship has always had very well-defined limits. Crossing those could prove to be a road of no return.

“Good, because I won’t. I hate that sentimental crap. But you should definitely call someone and mention that. Try Simon. Simon will know what to say.”

“I don’t want to be talked into going after him, Martin. We’re over. We were over even before we started. I ruined things, just like I ruin everything. Steve is in a fucking hospital bed right now because of me. I won’t do that to anyone else anymore.”

“Danny… Look at me.” Reluctantly, he does. “None of that was your fault. You gotta stop beating yourself up and taking the blame for something that you can’t control. There’s no way you’re ever going to forgive yourself if you weren’t meant to be blamed in the first place. It’s just going to make you miserable.”

“I _am_ miserable. And I deserve to be. Maybe I didn’t send Steve to the woods and I didn’t attack him -”

“He wasn’t attacked, he started a fight with someone -”

“Whatever!” Dan cuts him off angrily. “That’s the bloody point. What happened to him was the end result of four years with me. I won’t do to Fernando the same thing I did to him.”

Martin sighs wearily, cocks him an eyebrow. “Honestly, will you even listen to anything I say?”

“That’s decided, Martin.” Dan gazes away from Martin once, his voice a lot less resolute than he’d intended. 

“Fine. If that’s how you want it.”

“It is.”

“Just be certain that I will say ‘I told you so’ when you regret all this.”

“You’re a fucking horrible friend, do you know that?”

“I’m the best friend you have, honey. Can’t blame me for being honest.”

“Shut up, Martin.” With some effort, Daniel drags his limbs out of the couch. “We need to get this place cleaned up before Steve gets back. I don’t want to give him any more reasons to hate me than he already has.”

“All right, Danny,” Martin says, around a resigned sigh. “Let’s pretend you’re not being a bonehead and clean up your ex’s house. Have it your way. See how supportive I can be? I’m supporting your stupidity.”

“Seriously, Martin, if you don’t -”

“I get it. Shut up. I won’t say a word anymore.”

“Thank you.”

Martin mumbles something to himself and goes back to picking up things around the living room. Dan watches as he inspects objects, books, magazines… The Dane gets that little burning sensation at the pit of his stomach again. To think he might have broken Martin’s heart and not even know it… All the awful things he’s ever said to the other man regarding relationships or his life style or his personality in general suddenly spring back to mind. Not that Martin hasn’t been awful to him in return, but you know… He wasn’t the one _in love_. Not with Martin, anyway. It’s how they’ve always been: they argue, they say offensive stuff, they tell each other to shut up and they move on. But doing all that to someone who’s got feelings, like actual love feelings for you, it’s… Well, it’s just terrible, isn’t it?

Martin is always trudging that fine line between being the best and the worst person in the world as far as their thing goes. But one thing is absolutely true: Dan has never felt as much affection towards the other man as he does right now. If it wasn’t for Martin’s presence in the last 24 hours of his life he would’ve probably jumped off a cliff already.

“Martin,” he calls.

“I’m quiet,” the other man replies, not even turning back to him.

“I know.” Dan makes a pause. “Thank you.”

“You already said that.”

“No, I mean… Thank you for being here.” The Slovakian turns his head and gives Dan a confused glance for a second before his expression morphs into a smile. “Really.”

Martin gives him a little wink. “No need to thank me, darling. Let’s just get it over with, yeah? This place gives me the creeps. I’m allergic to domesticated lawyers.”

Usually, Dan would tell him to shut up and threat him with violence. Not this time, though. With a little smile, he says, “Ok,” and they go back to work.

x-x-x

Finns is almost dozing off when the crazy doctor returns. 

The first thing Finns notices upon finally being able to see him properly, no blurry vision anymore, is that he is very young. The second is that he is actually quite attractive, which comes as a bit of a shock. It’s like he’s come out straight from one of those hospital TV shows where everyone looks good and athletic (despite spending 24 hours a day in a hospital, go figure) and knows just the perfect way to style their hair to make it look like the most incredible hair ever. This doctor has really good hair. Finns suddenly feels very self-conscious about his own appalling appearance. He wants to raise his hand and mention that he doesn’t normally look this bad, just because.

“I see you’re feeling better,” the doctor says, pulling a chair to sit close to the bed, albeit still at a good distance. He then picks the chart hanging from the end of the bed and flips over some of the pages. “Staying overnight for observation but otherwise ok,” he reads out-loud before lifting his face to smile. “Hangover aside, of course.” 

The smile is even better when you can properly see it. It’s hard to concentrate.

“Your friends have left, by the way. There was a bit of a fuss, but no major incidents.”

“You’re Australian,” Finns says, out of nowhere. The doctor looks momentarily taken aback, but lets out a rich laughter right after.

“Are you disappointed?”

“No. I was just trying to pinpoint your accent. It was driving me nuts,” he admits.

“Well, I’ll have a golden star added to your chart.” He takes a pen out of his coat pocket and scribbles something down on the top corner of the paper, then turns it and shows Finns a tiny little star. “See?”

“That’s the faultiest star I have ever seen.”

“I didn’t say it would be a pretty star.”

Finns says nothing, so he puts the chart back down. “I’m Dr. Kewell, by the way. I believe I forgot to introduce myself. Pardon my manners.”

“What kind of doctor are you?”

“Psychiatrist.”

“Why do I need a psychiatrist?”

“You don’t. Not yet, anyway. I’m here to evaluate your situation. It’s hospital policy that a psychiatrist needs to oversee some cases.”

“Why my case?”

“Because, Mr. Finnan, it looks like you had a very rough night.”

Finns’ eyes flicker away from Dr. Kewell, to the window on the opposite wall, and back again. Despite trying very hard to _forget_ , he remembers the night before with incredible richness of detail for someone who had as much shit as he did. Up to the moment where someone picked him up from the ground and brought him to the hospital, that is. He knows that happened, he just can’t figure out how.

“Do you know how you ended up here?” Kewell asks, calmly.

“No.”

“Do you know _why_ then?”

Finns sighs. “I have an idea.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“Do I have to?”

“Not necessarily. But I think it’s in your best interest.”

“Why is that?”

Dr. Kewell grins and Finns doesn’t know why, but he feels like blushing. “You wouldn’t happen to be a lawyer, would you? That bit hasn’t been filled on your file.”

Finns’ eyebrows gather in, causing his head to hurt a bit more. Facial expressions at this point are a real challenge. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Lawyers are usually twice the work. They have this habit of questioning absolutely _everything_ ,” the doctor rolls his eyes jokingly. “The good ones, anyway,” he adds.

It’s really hard to tell whether that man wants to treat him or to ask him out, a doubt that is making Finns very confused and also very queasy. “Is that some kind of strategy or something?” he asks.

“That what?”

“The winking and the smiling and the whole bright mood thing. Do you think that turning on the charm will make me open up and pour out my feelings or something?”

“I don’t know,” Kewell shrugs. “Is it working?”

“No,” he replies, frostily. “What were you saying before?”

“I was asking you to elaborate on what happened last night, to help me understand. According to the person who brought you here, uhm…” he takes another quick look at the chart. “Martin Skrtel. Know him?”

Oh, Jesus fuck. Martin? _Martin_?! From all the people in the world who could save his ass, did it really have to be fucking Martin? It just keeps getting worse. Dejectedly, Steve nods his head.

“Right. So, Mr. Skrtel said you got on the worst end of a fist fight that you started against a bloke who was _as big as a horse_. His words. Is that correct?”

“Sounds like it.”

“So you did start the fight?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t remember that?”

“Is it important to know who started the fight?”

“It does help, I think.”

Frustrated, Finns shifts a little in his place, only to get another sharp wave of pain to wash through him. He makes a grimace, prompting Dr. Kewell to stand up to check the things connected to the needles on his arms. “There, painkillers should kick in in a moment,” he says before returning to his chair.

“Thanks.”

“Let me know when you’re comfortable again.”

Steve takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes for a second. “I think I told him I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, then I shoved him back and when he wouldn’t do anything I started calling him… things. Then he, well… Hit me. That’s what I remember.”

“You wanted him to hit you, then.”

“I know what happened, not what I was thinking. I don’t remember what was going through my head.”

“Do you remember exactly what kind of substance you made use of throughout the night?”

“Alcohol.”

“Just alcohol?”

“I think so.”

“You don’t remember taking anything else?” He does, as a matter of fact. But he was hoping he could skip that part, which, judging by the questions, he won’t be able to. “Mr. Finnan…” The doctor starts, and suddenly he doesn’t look like he’s trying to flirt anymore. His features are as serious and professional as it gets. Finns swallows down hard. “Your toxicology exam had some worrisome results, which is basically the reason why I’m here. If it had been only the alcohol - it happens. We all exaggerate on the booze. But you mixed large doses of alcohol with dramatically dangerous doses of drugs. And not just one type either.”

Finns turns away from the doctor, facing the window. “I suppose.”

“You edged dangerously close to an overdose, Mr. Finnan. A potentially fatal overdose. Your organs were very overloaded. You were lucky Mr. Skrtel brought you here so we could treat you.”

“I’ll remember to write him a thank you card.”

“Mr. Finnan.” The Australian accented voice resonates thunderous across the room, sending a shiver up Steve’s spine. He flinches, almost imperceptibly, and, however reluctantly, turns back to Dr. Kewell, whose eyes have gone dark, however still oddly compassionate. Finns feels small before the other man, like a child about to get scolded by a particularly intimidating parent for misbehaving. “This is serious. If someone hadn’t brought you here it could’ve been a lot worse than a few stitches.”

“But it wasn’t. I’m fine.”

“I don’t know about you, but I have never heard of someone who was _fine_ consuming this much drug and alcohol and then picking fights with complete strangers for no reason whatsoever. How often does this happen?”

“Never.”

“Never?” He doesn’t sound like he believes it at all, which frankly is starting to piss Finns off a little.

“I don’t do drugs. I only drink socially. Sometimes I get drunk, but never like this. It was a one-time thing. If you don’t believe me you can take my mobile and call whoever you want on my list to check.”

“What motivated you to do it now, then?”

“I…” Finns starts, stops, wonders just how much he’s actually willing to tell this doctor. “I had a bad day. Week. Well, a month, really. But my day was particularly bad. I had… a nasty break-up.”

“I see,” the doctor nods his head at Finns. “Something to do with the two men who were here to see you?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Maybe. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Fair enough.”

“I don’t want to be having this conversation at all.”

Dr. Kewell smiles again, only softer this time. At last he seems to be satisfied with an answer. Finns decides he likes his smile very much, although he can’t really say the same about the attitude. The man’s really annoying. “We’re almost done,” he says. “Were you aware of what you were doing while you were doing it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you realize you could have an overdose at any minute while you were taking the drugs?”

“You think I was trying to kill myself,” Finns states, not as a question. 

Dr. Kewell doesn’t even flinch. “Were you?”

“No,” Finns retorts, coldly. “Of course I didn’t know what I was doing, I wasn’t thinking. I just took whatever they handed me. For the most part I didn’t even know what I was taking.” Finns makes a sudden break, his eyes moving away from Dr. Kewell’s for a moment. “I did almost take heroine, at one point. Some guy approached me and he had a needle and a tourniquet, asked me if I wanted to feel really good. _It’s the strongest shit you’ll find here_ , he said. I thought ‘why not’?”

“But you didn’t accept it?”

“I accepted, I just didn’t take it.”

“Why not?”

“I saw this guy staring at me from the corner and for some reason I decided I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, so I went over to him and started a fight. Then this happened,” Finns says, pointing a finger to his head.

“Well,” the doctor says. “I guess we can say that fight saved your life.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

“No. You were just genuinely stupid.”

Finns' eyebrows would’ve shot up in surprise if it didn’t make the stitches on his head ache so much. “Excuse me?”

“Being sincere.”

“I don’t want your sincerity. I thought doctors were supposed to be comprehensive.”

“In my career I have come to realize that comprehensiveness doesn’t always hit the nail on the head.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That in order to make you realize how incredibly close to an overdose you were, I have to be straightforward and the bluntest way to put it is that what you did was really stupid. If someone hadn’t brought you here, if you hadn’t passed out, if the doctors had mistakenly dismissed you for just another drunkard - maybe you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“That’s a lot of ifs. In _my career_ the ifs are not part of the equation. Something either happens or it doesn’t. Someone brought me here, I passed out, the doctors - not you, by the way - took exceptional care of me and I’m fine. Everything else is speculation and I’m not in the mood for bollocks, in case you haven’t noticed,” Finns lashes out. 

Dr. Kewell doesn’t even seem to fret. “Fine is a very scarce concept in your case right now. You’re in a hospital bed, on your hundredth IV bag -”

“What the fuck? Are you my mother now?”

“ - half of your head had to be shaved to get those stitches done -”

“Half of my - What?” Finns’ eyes widen in shock. “They _shaved_ my head? It’s not just a bandage covering my hair?”

The doctor looks momentarily off balance, like he wasn’t expecting Finns to care more about the fact he lost part of his hair than that he could’ve been dead by the end of the night if he hadn’t started a pointless fight. “Uhm,” he starts. “It was necessary.”

“Shit!” Finns pulls a little of the bandage over and touches skin directly where there should’ve been fair strands of brown hair. “That's fucking unbelievable! Now I’ll have to shave the other side as well! Shit!”

“I suppose. Or you could start a new trend,” Kewell offers with a little smile.

“Bloody fuck.”

“If I knew you cared so much about your hair I would’ve mentioned it straight away. Do you see how bad it was now?”

“Fuck off.” Finns means it in the most hostile way possible because that doctor is seriously getting on his nerves and he can’t handle. He thought doctors were supposed to be peaceful and friendly, not annoying and ridiculously attractive at the same time, something that is causing all sorts of mixed reactions. He doesn’t want to be confused right this moment and he could really use with not having to be mad at anyone new. There’s a line of people whose faces he can’t stand to look at already, thank you very much. In spite of his acrimony, Dr. Kewell smiles again, which prompts Finns to think that perhaps that’s exactly the sort of reaction he was aiming for in the first place. Psychiatrists are bloody lunatics. “Look, I just had a really rough night, ok? Fuck, I had very rough four years. My life sucks.”

“What happened to make you feel that way?”

Steve draws the air in slowly, trying to come up with something to say to make him go away. “Do you know when you’re feeling old and battered and maybe like life’s taken the best of you already and the only thing that holds you together is your beautiful wife? Like, it’s ok if everything else sucks, because your wife is gorgeous and young and she loves you despite the fact that you’re old and battered, so you must be doing something right after all. And maybe the marriage is not perfect and you know that she’s not completely happy, but you’re trying, you know? You _want_ her to be happy because making her happy keeps _you_ happy, but nothing you do seems to be enough and then one day she meets someone else, who’s younger and more athletic, with an atrocious blond hair and suddenly she’s merry and blithe again, except it’s not because of you, it’s because she’s been fucking someone behind you back. She falls in love again and leaves, so on top of feeling old and battered you also feel like a useless piece of shit who can’t even keep your stupid boyfriend satisfied.” It takes him a second to realize that his story had turned into a rant half-way through it and that his intentions of keeping his personal preferences away from the nosy doctor’s judgments had just fallen through. “Fuck,” Finns mutters when he notices the cocked eyebrow on Dr. Weirdo's face.

“So I take it your boyfriend left you for someone younger, more athletic and with an atrocious blond hair, then,” Kewell says, conversationally. 

Finns sighs wearily. It’s no use fighting him. It really is a strange sensation not being the smartest person in the room. “And freckles. Freckles all over the fucking place.”

“You know… If I had a boyfriend and he left me in the same circumstances yours left you - and here I’m assuming that there’s at least some truth in that tale you just told me, do forgive me if I’m wrong - I wouldn’t blame it on myself. I’d think it would be all down to the fact that he’s an asshole.”

Well, for once Dr. Nosy-ass’ inconvenient manners don’t go by unappreciated. “I never said I don’t think he’s an arse.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s not an unusual thing, you know. To feel underrated when a relationship ends in a traumatic way.”

“Oh, we’re getting proper now, are we? No offense, doctor, but I have absolutely no interest in that sort of conversation. If you wanna know what happened, fine. If you want to start treating me - no, thank you.”

“I’m not trying to treat you. I haven’t decided if I think you need to get professional help yet, and even if you do, it’ll probably not be from me. I’m simply trying to put the pieces together and get to the core of this.”

“Fine. This is what happened: sometimes, the easiest way to work your problems out, the ones you have with yourself, that no one can solve for you, is to try and restrain a creature with enough raw strength to rip you to shreds.”

“You mean to adopt a very self-destructive and unfamiliar pattern of behavior.”

“That’s what your text books tell you. But I think you’re the kind of person who can understand that sometimes a good beating is the only thing capable of kicking your arse back into place. Not that I was thinking about that at the time, but I suppose that’s where everyone’s minds stray towards in those cases. When you get too sad, or too lonely, or too hopeless… Something needs to sparkle you back into life.”

“Have you been sparkled back into life, Mr. Finnan?” 

Finns regards Dr. Kewell in silence for a moment, considers his kind eyes and his nice smile and the honest interest he’s been showing not only in a professional manner, but in a rather… human manner. Like a human being caring for another human being’s condition and empathizing with that fellow person’s feelings. Being a prick aside, that is. Perhaps this is just not the right moment, but in some subconscious level, Finns can actually appreciate the thought.

To say he’s been sparkled back into life would be a lie. He hasn’t. He still feels like the same pile of shit he did the night before, only now his pain is physical and the little dignity he still had in him has been completely wiped out. All in all he’d say he’s worse than a day ago. Only it doesn’t feel like it. 

Today is definitely not a good day. His life is a greater mess than it should be, he feels ashamed of himself and incredibly sad, but this is a fixed point now. When he gets out of this hospital, this will all be left behind. He can only go forward from here. Stephen feels as though his night was the closure to an arc; he’d been climbing this incredibly high mountain, dodging rolling stones on the way up, getting hurt and ripped apart and beaten up. Now he’s gotten to the top. He’s still a big sack of broken bones, everything aches and he can barely breathe, but that’s it. The hardest part is over. The only way from here is down. 

Finns takes a deeper breath as he realizes that he just put the final period on his story with Daniel. There’s an awkward emptiness in him, but it’s not all bad. 

“Well,” he speaks again, after a moment. “I certainly got a brand new pressing issue to worry about rather than my unresolved feelings towards myself or the end of my relationship. So I’d say it’s a start.”

Dr. Kewell grins, like he’s happy to hear his answer. “And what would that be?”

“What to do with my hair. God, this is such a disaster…” Finns touches the bandaged side of his head again. Knowing that he’ll have to go bald in a little while to allow his hair to grow equally makes him want to cry, although it is only half mourning for his precious hair. The other half is actually for everything that it represents. His ugly head is going to be a reminder of everything that he hates about himself, everything that made Daniel fall in love with someone else and just how he managed to make a complete joke of himself by not handling rejection like the gentleman he always thought he was.

Finns spent his entire life hearing from everyone - his parents, his friends, his ex-boyfriends, Stevie, people he barely knew - that he should _let go_ a little bit. Be more impulsive, more reckless, go with your instinct, do whatever the hell you want, even if it’s crazy or stupid or senseless. See where following whims took him: injured, nearly over-dosed and now with only half of his head covered with hair. 

Well, they can go all go fuck themselves.

When his hair finally grows back, he’s going to be a new man. A better man. And one who doesn’t listen to what anyone thinks he _should_ be. Finns wanted to feel young and attractive again because of Daniel and ended up looking like Frankenstein’s wife. He has learned his lesson: he is what he is, and if that’s boring, serious and workaholic, then anyone who doesn’t like it can shove it. 

“I think you look good either way,” the doctor says, stopping Finns’ train of thought. He blinks at the other man, momentarily confused. “You have good bones,” Kewell adds, with that calm half-smile that speaks of wisdom at the same time it is the mark of a smart-ass. Finns honestly doesn’t know what to think of that person.

“Am I grounded?” he asks at last.

“You’re not grounded, Mr. Finnan. This wasn’t a test. It was just a conversation.”

“Do I have to seek help or what?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re the one who gets paid to determine that.”

Dr. Kewell laughs softly. “I have a feeling that even if I tell you to seek help, you won’t. You’re just one of those patients.”

“ _Those_ patients?” 

“Self-sufficient. Think they can handle everything by themselves, that they’re enough and there’s nothing in this world they can’t do.”

“Oh,” Finns says. “I’ll admit I’m probably somewhere in there, yes.”

“I know. I get paid to determine that too.” Dr. Kewell stands up and checks something on the IV fluid hanging above Finns’ head. “Seems like you’ll be needing another one. I’ll ask the nurse to come and check.”

“Are you leaving?” he asks, perhaps with a tad more exasperation than strictly necessary. Turns out he was kind of enjoying the company, however annoying this man can be. 

“My job here is done,” he announces, stuffing his hands in his white coat’s front pockets. “But I suppose I could stop by later, if you’d like.”

“Ok,” Finns replies, curtly as to not look so desperate for a little attention, but celebrating on the inside.

“All right. Get some rest now, Mr. Finnan.”

Dr. Cheeky leaves with - obviously - a wink and a smile. Finns closes his eyes and breathes like he hasn’t in a very long time.


	18. All my tears have been used up on another love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As most of the people asked, this is a longer chapter than usual. So if you hate how long it is, blame the people who said it was better to have longer chapters! Just kidding. I thought it made sense to have these parts put together. I merely altered the order of the small parts, so it would make more sense. I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> As always, please forgive me for all my mistakes. If you see anything that makes me look stupid, drop me a note. But please be kind, as English is not my first language and I am making an effort here!

If anyone asks, the first thing Steve Finnan will say about Steven Gerrard is that he is a wonderful guy, and he would be telling the absolute truth. Finns would have to say that he has never met a better person, because in all honesty he hasn't. Stevie is a kind soul and an extremely pleasant company. He is a loving and caring friend, but most of all he is loyal, which is a quality that can be so easily overlooked these days.

The problem with Steven Gerrard is that he sometimes can be _too_ caring, a little _too_ loving and also _blindingly_ loyal, not entirely in the good sense. Not that Finns doesn't appreciate or admire his dedication, but that kind of doesn't change the fact that Stevie can be, at times, simply stupid. And the extent to which he is willing to go due to his Mama Bear instincts both amazes and frightens Finns. 

When the nurse announces that a Mr. Steven Gerrard is waiting at the reception - "and will not be taking no for an answer" - Finns just sighs. He does hate hospitals, but this time, given the circumstances, he was kind of seeing the bright side. If you ignore the fact that there are people dying all around the place, you can begin to appreciate the peace and quiet, but most of all the security team keeping unwanted visitors well outside.

But it's one thing to say no to Daniel or Xabi and a completely different one to have enough heart - or energy - to deny anything to Stevie. 

There are several key factors that must be taken under consideration here. First of all, compassion. Finns must have compassion for the hospital employees, who have all - Dr. Smartass aside - been very kind to him. Daniel can be a pain in the ass, but give Stevie the right tools and he can be so much more inventive, which in this case translates simply into _a fucking nightmare_. 

Second, and perhaps most importantly, Finns must acknowledge Stevie's knack for self-destructiveness. The things Stevie must have done upon finding out what happened to him... This is, potentially, the perfect moment to showcase how Stevie's excessive loyalty can be hazardous, to himself more than to anyone else. If Finns is correct, Xabi is probably on the receiving end of a lot of bitterness right now - and in spite of Finns' own share of bitter feelings towards the Spaniard at the moment, the last thing he wants is for Stevie to start a crisis in his perfect marriage because of him.

One broken heart is more than enough for the lot of them.

“Who the fuck did this to you?” is, rather unsurprisingly, the first question Stevie makes after barging into Finns' hospital room like a thunder, as though purposefully trying to make a point of disrupting the previous state of still calmness.

Finns stares at his friend's stormy blue eyes in silence for a moment longer. He says, in a monotone, “Hello, Steven. How are you? I’m fine, thanks for asking. No, it’s nothing serious. It’s just a mild concussion and a small cut. I’ll be as good as new in no time."

“Why are you being funny?” Stevie is all seriousness.

“I’m not being funny. But you should see about getting your priorities sorted.”

“You don’t think I have already pried all those things out of the nurses outside? Now I wanna know who the fuck did this to you, because if that _son of a bitch_ -”

“It was not Daniel,” Finns stops Stevie because he knows where this is going. If he allows it, just the tiniest of gaps, and tonight will become an endless rant on all the one thousand ways in which Daniel will be tortured for his sins and so on and so forth. There is a lot of grudge there towards Daniel on his own part, but the situation is already awful as it is. No need for Steven to go out all guns blazing and make it all worse.

“You’re going to defend that knobhead? Seriously?” His eyebrows have shot up in earnest disbelief.

“I’m not defending anyone, Stevie, I’m just making it clear that he has nothing to with what happened before you decide to go after him with an axe.”

Stevie shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns in a manner that says he's not even remotely inclined towards not blaming Daniel. 

“Then who?” he asks, his voice coming out as strained as the muscles on his face.

“I don’t know him. It was a random guy. And frankly I wouldn’t tell you even if I did. It was my fault, I started the fight, I got what I deserved. Leave the poor lad alone.”

" _Poor_ lad? He cut your head open."

"I asked for it. You would agree with me if you had seen it, I was a nuisance. I would've punched myself as well if I hadn't been so - drunk," Finns makes a life-saver stop a millisecond before finishing his sentence. The word that meant to come out was 'high'. The difference between subduing Stevie into keeping the fuck calm and all hell breaking lose. "Besides, technically it wasn't him who got my head open. It was the stone I hit when I fell down. His fists only did this." Finns sticks his swollen lower lip out and points a finger towards his bruised cheek.

Stevie stares at him like he's completely insane. Finns is certain he's about to burst into a verbal attack at any second now; instead, Stevie blows his perplexity out in a deep and helpless exhale as he shakes his head in surrender.

Victory to the people of God.

“What the hell were you doing at the woods, Stephen?” he asks, his voice softer now, but still a little rough around the edges. 

“I don’t know. I guess I was looking for the worst place I could go to in a very bad night. It has to be there, right?”

“You know better than that.”

“I wasn’t exactly making good use of my better judgment, Stevie. That’s the whole point.”

“Did… Did someone… Did someone do… You know…” he trails off, looking away, scared of finishing his question because he doesn't know whether he wants to hear the answer or not. Finns reads all that on his face; doesn't even need to hear the rest of it.

“You mean, did I get raped?” Stevie glares, probably thinking Finns isn’t taking him seriously enough, which might be somewhat true. Finns is making a point of not taking any of this seriously enough - not his injury, not the risks involved with going to that place in the poor state of awareness he was in, not the fact he almost accidentally killed himself - God forbid Stevie ever hears about that last bit. “Nobody raped me, Steven, you can relax.”

“Relax? _Relax_?" Stevie's voice escalates to showcase his full indignation. "You think this is normal? Do you have any idea how many people have been abused at that place? Do you have any idea how my head was while I was driving here? My heart hasn't stopped racing yet, I can feel it in my fucking mouth. How do you expect me to _relax_ when I was informed in the middle of the fucking day that my friend had been _attacked_ at the _bloody woods_?! Christ, Stephen! Have you even seen yourself in a fucking mirror? You look like a corpse!”

“I wasn't _attacked_. I started a stupid, meaningless fight with someone who happened to be a lot stronger than me and I lost, as it usually happens when you're the weaker side in a stupid fight. And by the way, thanks for the sensitivity, Steven, that’s exactly the sort of encouragement I need right now.”

Stevie rubs his face with both his hands. He seems to be exasperated and he makes his displeasure clear by letting out a frustrated grunt before pulling the chair closer and taking a seat right beside the bed. He leans his elbows on the mattress and pulls Finns’ hand between his own, placing a long kiss on his knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he forces himself to say, eyes locked straight onto Finns'. “I was dead worried - I still am. I went crazy when I heard.”

The corner of Finns’ lips twist into a tiny little smile. The first one he’s given anyone in what feels like decades. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, I’m fucking like that. How much did you have to drink last night, anyway?”

Finns shrugs. He is honestly unsure and not totally committed to caring. Besides, the things he _drank_ barely made a difference, anyway.

Stevie sighs. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“Steven -”

“No, I mean it. I knew you were screwed up because of that arsehole and then the whole thing with Xabi - I just… I knew you were fucked up, I should’ve just been my insufferable self and not let you alone.”

“You do realize I’m overage and allowed to do whatever I want, right, mom?”

“Not if I say no.”

“I would hate you even more if you had forced your presence upon me and tried to keep me from being an idiot.” Finns pulls his hand away and places it on top of Stevie’s head, threading his fingers gently through his friend's hair. "Sometimes that's all we need, you know. I was in desperate need of acting like an idiot for a while. I needed to remember what it felt like, being reckless and all that. The embarrassment is now keeping me from thinking about other things. It's a good distraction."

"You could've -"

" _Could've'_ , but I haven't. Let's not get too attached to the ifs here, yeah?" Stevie purses his lips, not happy to hold back on all the things he means to say. Stevie is a lad who's got very intense feels, lots of opinions; it takes real effort to keep things to himself. So before he gets the chance to start again, Finns continues in a manner that intends to draw a line under the conversation. "Stevie, I love you," he says, "but you’re not my mother. Right now I really need you to be my friend, ok? Show me some support and say that you’ll love me even if I have no hair anymore. That's what I need from you right now.”

“Of course I love you, but -” Stevie stops, blinks awkwardly. “Wait, what do you mean no hair?”

“They have shaved half of my head to get the stitches done.”

Stevie’s eyes widen in shock. “No shit!”

“Shit.”

“Fuck!”

“I know.”

“But you love your hair!”

“I fucking know that.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna have to get rid of the rest of it and wait ‘till it grows back.”

“Go bald?”

“What choice do I have?”

“Fuck…” Stevie offers him a sympathy look, but it slowly morphs into an amused smile that finally bursts into an audible laughter.

“Oh, you laugh,” Finns scolds. “My hair will grow. When yours begin to fall, it will be a road of no return.”

“That is so not true,” Stevie says, confidently, but he takes a protective hand up to his hair anyway. “I have good genes. The Gerrards’ hair sticks.”

“I’ll allow you to take the piss just because I’m feeling generous. But we’ll be coming back to this topic in a few years.”

Stevie’s laughter dims into a chuckle before eventually fading. His smile becomes strained once more and his hand searches for Stephen’s again as he seeks a little reassurance. Finns gives him a little squeeze, smiles back at him with as much enthusiasm as he can muster at the moment - granted, it isn’t really that much, but it will suffice.

“I’m sorry, Finns,” Stevie starts again. “I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

“Worse things happen to better people all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It's still terrible.”

“I’ll be ok.”

Stevie studies him for a moment, holds his hand tighter, intertwining their fingers together. “I’ll make sure of that.”

x-x-x

Fernando decides that the best course of action to accomplish his task is to just go for it and do it. No stalling, no messing about; just get in there and do it. Quick and painless, like ripping off a band-aid. But, when the secretary announces he can go in, Fernando takes the deepest of deep breaths and realizes that he's not at all ready for this confrontation.

Being completely honest, he was half hoping that the secretary would say that Xabi had already left, or that it was too late, or that Xabi was too busy and he’d have to schedule a meeting some other time - anything to stop him from seeing his boss. Fernando was acting on a total whim when he decided to leave his flat at almost 10pm and walk all the four minutes to the publishing house’s office. Now he kind of wishes he'd gotten himself a flat somewhere else, somewhere far, far away. In Manchester, maybe.

He’d spent the whole day typing away on his computer to try and exorcise the gigantic amount of frustration bottled up inside. The idea was to wear himself out. Fernando had hoped his brain would just shut down and he'd pass out somewhere and perhaps sleep for two whole days. No such luck, though. His brain decided it wasn’t tired or satisfied enough; now, fingers calloused and wrists in agonizing pain, Fernando had to go glare at Xabi in person and deliver all ten chapters to his editor. It was only when he was already half-way there that the Spaniard started questioning this highly shady reasoning of his. What if Xabi refuses to see him? What if he loses his cool and ends up screaming at his editor? What if Xabi decides to drop him? What if Xabi calls him a whore and tells him to pack his things and leave town before he sends a team of private assassins to chase him out of Liverpool?

The elevator arrived at Xabi's floor just the second he realized this was all so very wrong. But then it was too late. He'd set himself on a mission and he’d go through with it - unless, of course, Xabi’s secretary said otherwise, which is exactly what the most sensible side of him had been hoping for.

When he walks in, Xabi’s waiting for him with pleading eyes. Fernando can't help but notice that he looks like maybe he's going down with something, completely exhausted. Such a glaring distance from the gorgeous, glowing, ready-to-pose-for-GQ Xabi Alonso he got used to seeing. That, however, doesn’t quite reach the rational seat in the left hemisphere of Fernando’s brain, which is, right now, fixated upon something else.

The only thing that it registers is: _he knew_. Xabi knew all along. Xabi knew and didn't do anything, didn't say anything. 

It's enough to make him feel possessed again.

Fernando leaves the pendrive in front of Xabi on the desk with a thud. The older man inspects it for a moment before looking back up at him, quizzically. “What is this?” he asks.

“The first ten chapters of my book,” Fernando replies, frostily, but keeping his tone civil.

Xabi’s eyes widen in mild shock. “ _Ten_ chapters?” he asks. “You wrote _ten_ chapters in less than a month?”

“I wrote two chapters and a half in one month. The other seven and a half I wrote this afternoon.”

Xabi’s eyebrows go up to his hairline. “Wow,” he says, not sounding at all impressed. More like frightened. “Are you sure you want me to read it like this?”

“No. But you have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do with it other than give it to you.”

Xabi studies his expression for a second, his dark eyes deep and sad. “Is that really why you’re here, Fernando?”

“No.” Fernando can feel the heat growing in his stomach, his blood starting to boil. “But don’t go there.”

“I'm afraid we can't avoid going there.”

“Yes, we can. We have to. If we go there then I am going to start yelling. I’ve been doing a hell of a job at keeping from yelling so far and I don’t want you to ruin it, otherwise I _am_ going to yell and you’re the boss, so that would be completely inappropriate, not to mention suicidal, since you basically have my entire career in your hands.” By the end of it, his answer had turned into a near-rant, his tone escalating to just a notch beneath shouting. His words seemed to be leap-frogging one another, falling over one another, as Fernando did exactly everything he didn’t want to. So he sighs, half annoyed, half crushed, and let his shoulders drop in defeat.

Xabi doesn’t seem to be affected, though. “You can yell at me,” he says, in that infinitely patient tone of his. “I deserve to get yelled at. Please,” he points towards the chair next to Fernando. “Take a seat and yell. Trust me, you won’t be the first person to do that today.”

Hesitating, Fernando sits down. He fixes his eyes on Xabi for a long moment and then asks, “Why?”

"You're not the only one I have angered, Fernando. Hell, basically everyone I know is mad at me right now," he says, with a sad smile on his face.

"No, I mean - Why did you not think it was relevant to mention Daniel had a boyfriend? You knew straight away what was happening."

"Ah." Xabi stops, sighs, his eyes flickering away from Fernando for a second. "It's not that I didn't think it was relevant, it's just... I blanked," he starts, his voice sounding slightly off, as though this isn't the first time he's had to explain himself today. Fernando feels tempted to ask what happened, why he looks so dejected - but his irrational need to know why Xabi allowed Daniel to toy around with him stops him from it. 

"You were so genuinely happy I didn't have it in me to be the one to crush you. I just couldn't do it, Fernando," Xabi continues after a short pause. "Instead I went straight to Daniel. And that might have been my big mistake, because... I listened to him. I believed what he told me and maybe I shouldn't have. The way things panned out, I might've been able to avoid a lot of heartache if I had just told everyone what I knew straight away."

 _I don't want to know, I don't want to know, I don't want to know..._ "What did he tell you?" comes the inevitable question, asked from behind gritted teeth.

Xabi bites his lower lip pensively, his eyes, though still tired and gloomy, carry a little tenderness as well. When he speaks, it sounds almost apologetic, like he doesn't want to say it, like he's beating himself up inside for it. "That he's in love with you. That he didn't know what to do, that he was scared of how he felt. That he didn't want to hurt Finns, that he was afraid of making a mistake, that he didn't know whether he should tell him or not..."

Fernando feels a bit of a pang somewhere but ignores it in the name of letting out a huff that was intended as an ironic laugh but kind of sounds more like a sob. "That's a load of bullshit. For how long did the think he could keep the two of us?"

"I don't know what he was thinking. But I can understand where he was coming from. I've been there. I was once you and Steven was once Daniel, despite the fact he refuses to admit it. ...It's hard. Daniel and Finns had been together for four years before you came along. Everything happened too fast. It would've been hard anyway, but... Well, it's Daniel. He always finds ways of complicating things that he cannot fix. He was afraid he would end up losing both of you if he didn't find the right way of... sharing the news." Xabi makes a pause. "He was afraid of making a mistake, see? Of losing you and regretting for the rest of his life - and of breaking up with Finns only to realize that it was the wrong choice." 

Fernando opens his mouth to protest, but before he has the chance to start, Xabi cuts him off by raising his palms out in the air. "I'm not saying he was right, obviously I don't approve of what happened and I don't think he should've cheated on his boyfriend to begin with," he says. "But I can see how it must've been very hard for him. How do you decide to break up with someone you have been with for years? How do you hurt someone you care so much for? And for someone you literally just met." Xabi stops, looks away, then back again. "When I spoke to him, he seemed to be pretty clear about what had to be done. He was going to break up with Finns, he told me. He was certain of his feelings for you. He promised me that by the end of the week he would've cleaned this mess. And I agreed to wait and let him do the talking on his own terms. But then it backfired because he chose to take you out on the same night that Steven decided to drag Finns out of the house, then Finns saw the two of you together and the rest is... You know."

Fernando's shoulder slumps as his eyes drift down to the floor. All the determination that led him all the way from his flat to Xabi's office suddenly gone.

"I couldn't believe how lucky I was," he says, completely taken by dejection. "My life was - not perfect, but it was as good as it gets, I guess. I thought Liverpool was paradise," Fernando says, words drenched in disappointment. "I had been here for just a couple of weeks, my writing was flowing, my book was coming out, _you_ were my editor and... I met this incredible guy on my first night out. What are the odds? I should've known it was too good."

"I'm sorry."

"How could you not tell me, Xabi?" Fernando's nerves are melting away. "It wasn't just about a wrong impression about the wrong guy. Everyone I know is somehow involved in this. Daniel's boyfriend is one of your closest friends. It could've ruined _everything_ that I've worked so hard for. "

"No, no, no. " Xabi practically jumps in his place, waving his hands frantically in the air along with his head. "Absolutely not. I would never let something like that interfere with our work."

"Wouldn't you?" the Spaniard asks, defiantly, chin held up. "What if he asked you to? What if he still asks you to drop me?"

"He can't ask me to do that."

"He can. Isn't he your friend? Your husband could ask you to do the same, for all I know."

Xabi's lips stretch into a firm and determined line before he says, in all seriousness, perhaps a little offended as well, "Steven would never do that, Fernando."

"How do you know that?" he ploughs on.

"They are not like this. They might be angry, but they are not petty men. Neither Steven nor Finns would ever do that. Ask _me_ to drop any of my writers for personal reasons - that's ridiculous."

Fernando bites on his lower lip, half of him wanting to drop down and cry while the other half just wants to get up and punch Xabi until everything is back to the way it was two nights before. 

"I'm so fucked right now," he mutters. "One thing came crashing down and then everything else followed right behind."

"Not everything else, Nando," Xabi says in what Fernando is sure is meant to be a reassuring tone, only right now nothing really sounds very comforting. "I am truly sorry for what I've caused. You have no idea. I completely understand if you don't want me as a friend anymore, if you would prefer to keep things separate and our relationship exclusively professional. But I am still here for whatever you need and, please, rest assured, none of this will ever influence my job. Our work together, your book - it won't be affected at all."

The offer is tempting, he has to say - this feeling, this absolutely nut-driving feeling of having your entire life in jeopardy, of losing everything you hold dear at once - your soon-to-be-boyfriend, your friends, your work -, this is a terrible, terrible feeling and one Fernando would prefer to never experience, ever again. Perhaps keeping things separate with Xabi would really be the best option. But that would also mean being left utterly alone. He's got nothing else. Not in England, anyway.

There ain't anything Fernando needs more right now than a friend and, the way he sees it, Xabi is his only option.

"Oh, God," he mutters into his hands, rubbing his face with his palms. "Is it wrong that I miss him?" Fernando asks all of a sudden. "I mean, I'm angry. If I saw him right now, I'd probably hit him, but - I still miss him."

"I know." Xabi offers him a wan smile. "It's not easy being let down by someone you love."

"I don't know what to do." He leans back against his chair.

"Can I say something?" Xabi asks after a couple of seconds.

Fernando considers him for a moment. "Ok."

"Well, I might be... Actually, I _am_ the only person I know who has ever trusted Daniel in any way. And I don't take the reason out of anyone who doesn't, because Daniel has proven himself to be very untrustworthy throughout these years. But regardless of any criticism I might have about his behavior, the one thing I have never doubted is Daniel's feelings for Finns. Unlike my husband, who has always been a firm believer that Dan was only with Finns because of his money, I don't think he is that kind of person. He wouldn't be with someone just to have a comfortable life. Daniel is many things, but not that. He really did fall in love with Finns in spite of all their obvious differences. But Daniel is... Well, he's an artist, I'm sure you can understand what I mean. He has this anxiety inside of him. Very impulsive. _Terribly_ impulsive, I'd say. He tends to think with his heart more than he does with his head."

"... Is this supposed to mean something? Or are you just trying to tell me you think he's still in love with his boyfriend?"

Xabi inhales deeply. "My point is... You matter. You're not just another one of Daniel's fuck-ups. Well, you are. In a way. But you're not like the other ones. Hell, I'm not making this sound very well, am I?" Fernando just shakes his head at him. "He loves you, Fernando. I wasn't sure of that before but now I am. Daniel has fallen for you. He's different now. You made him different. Somehow. He's cheated on Finns before, but this time is different. You matter. A lot."

Fernando's knocked out of breath for a moment, words melting away on his tongue as his heart starts drumming away in his chest. His stomach begins stirring up as an unusual kind of apprehension takes over.

"Why are you telling me this?" Fernando questions, an undertone of uncertainty evident on his voice. Surely on his eyes as well. He must look like a scared little thing right now, which goes very well with his desire to curl into a fetal position and cry.

"I don't know. I don't know why I'm saying this," Xabi says, shaking his head helplessly. "Maybe for no reason. Maybe because I - I don't know. I probably shouldn't say anything. Steven would murder me if he heard me saying all this. I know I should probably be wanting Daniel's head on a platter, but I - I feel sorry for him, I guess."

"How long did it take you to forgive him?" Fernando asks, cursing himself inwardly for even considering, even if not entirely, even just as a hypothesis, forgiving Daniel Agger. "Your husband, I mean. When you found out what he was doing with - that man, Finns. What did you do?"

Xabi's lips quirk up into a tiny smile. "It was never a question of forgiving him. I knew I had to take him as he was or I wouldn't have him at all. He confessed there was someone else the second time we met. I was a bit shaken up, but... I accepted."

Fernando's eyebrows knit together. Stevie and Xabi are such an annoyingly perfect little couple that it's hard to imagine the two of them having any sort of issues, let alone having someone else between them. "You didn't care that he had a boyfriend?"

"Oh, I did care. I was dead jealous. But I thought I could take it. My desire to be with him was so great that it momentarily overcame all my principles. I told myself I didn't have to care."

"And then what?"

Xabi sighs. "Then I realized that was a load of bullshit. I couldn't really do it. I couldn't be the other person."

"And what did you do?"

"I told him he had a choice to make. God, I still remember that night..." Xabi stops, lets out a sharp breath that is the ghost of a laugh. "I remember watching him leave after telling him that I was out and thinking... What the hell did I just do? I had a feeling I was never gonna see him again, that he was obviously going to choose his boyfriend and that I was letting the love of my life walk away. It was the worst thing. It was... suffocating. Like I was never gonna forgive myself, never gonna be happy again."

"But he came back."

Xabi smiles at him. "Yeah. He did. Desolated, heartbroken, teary-eyed, completely devastated... But he came back. I felt awful for breaking them apart because obviously Finns meant a lot to him. And for a while there I thought it wasn't gonna work out after all, that Steven would blame me for making him choose, that he would never be the same again... Those were bad days. It got better after a while, but I could never really fulfill completely the void that Finns left. It took me a long time to figure it out - how the two of them connect. It's not easy. But then things finally began to fall into place for us and I realized that we were just... meant to be. Steven and I..." Xabi trails off, his eyes distant and unfocused as his mind wanders off. "Meant to be..." he repeats.

They lapse back into silence as Fernando watches the other man. Xabi quite clearly started talking about something else entirely by the end of his speech, but it still connected to a cord right inside of Fernando's chest. He and Xabi have a lot more in common than just their love for literature, it seems. It would be a funny coincidence that history seems to be repeating itself all over again if only it wasn't so goddamn tragic.

For just a fraction there Fernando allows himself to think about Finns, which is something he hadn't done yet except in moments when he had a lot of hatred in his heart towards the other man. He's the one constant thing in both his and Xabi's stories. It was Stevie and Xabi first, now it's him and Daniel - but Finns is still there, as the person who gets betrayed. Fernando can't even begin to imagine what he must feel like right now.

Unlike Xabi, he didn't know what he was doing, so technically it's not his fault. But still. He can't help but feel sorry for the other man. And, by consequence, even more of a jerk for having called him a bitch.

They stay in silence for a while longer, each to their own thoughts, until Fernando decides he's had enough and wants to go home. Xabi apologizes some more, promises he'll take a good look at all the material Fernando just delivered - he doesn't know whether to feel good about it or completely terrified, but there - and swears once again that nothing will interfere with his judgment. None of it appeases the churning inside Fernando's stomach or the storm in his head, but it has to suffice for now. This is all starting to give him a headache.

Before he leaves, though, he stops by the door and looks back at Xabi.

"Why is it so hard?" he asks. "Love?"

Xabi smiles, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Love is not hard, Nando. People are," he says, calmly. "We seem to have a penchant for ruining beautiful things."

And isn't that just absolutely true?

x-x-x

"Just five minutes, ok?" Stevie said about an hour ago, when exhaustion finally took over and he leaned his body forward, laid his head over Finn's legs and said he would _"just close me eyes for five minutes"_.

It didn't take him 60 seconds to start drooling all over. Stevie was never a pretty sleeper.

In the Who Had The Worst Night contest, Finns is certain he would beat anyone with flying colors. It would probably take being stabbed to death to make it worse. But knowing Steven the way he does, Finns can believe his friend’s was not amongst the best nights either. The fact he feels slightly guilty about it is why he’s deliberately ignoring that Stevie’s head is weighing a million pounds over his thighs by now and that he can barely feel his legs anymore to let him sleep peacefully a while longer. 

Probably stayed up wallowing in guilt and being mad at Xabi, the poor sod.

Finns' days of resentment towards the pair of them are in the past, buried underneath several layers of Daniel Agger drama. It took him a while to get used to seeing Stevie so pathetically in love with someone else, though. He'd be lying if he said it didn't bother him at first. Daniel happened on the night Finns found out that Stevie was getting married. He never told Daniel that part. Stevie figured it out, but never used it against him. He has a million and one other arguments against Daniel; the fact he was the fruit of Finns' jealousy and self-loathing is a hurtful card that does not need to be brought up.

Besides, it's not like it was always _just_ about Stevie. Daniel began to grow on him by his own merits, almost accidentally. One day Finns woke up and realized that that deep-rooted affection he had been harboring for a while had bloomed into love. Actual I-don't-think-I-want-to-be-without-you-anymore love. 

It's ironic that he fell in love with the sparkle in Daniel's eyes but failed to notice that he was actually murdering the very thing he loved the most about him by keeping Daniel to himself. It's hard to tell whether he was too selfish or too optimistic to think that Dan would be his Xabi. Of course he would never be his Xabi. Just like Finns would never be Dan's Stevie. 

But Finns never really gave up on making that become reality. He wanted to have a Xabi. Because even though he fell in love again with someone who couldn't bear less resemblance to Stevie, Finns couldn't help that slight tugging feeling at the pit of his stomach whenever he saw Stevie and Xabi together. 

Finns wonders if there will ever be a Xabi for him. Sometimes he thinks the answer is no.

He's done being envious or jealous now, though. Daniel's cured him of that, something for which Finns suspects he'll have to be eternally grateful. Even with all his fuck-ups and bullshits, Daniel managed to sear away the wounds Stevie left. He's covered the old scars with his own brand new ones. And boy, those are hurting right now.

The fact his legs are starting to cramp is only half the reason why Finns threads his fingers through his friend's hair to wake him up as gently as possible. Stevie needs to go back home, to his husband.

“Stevie,” he says. “Wake up.” Stevie mumbles something, turns his face to the other side, nuzzling his face against Finns’ thighs like that’s going to make the muscle there softer. It actually makes it ache real bad and Finns has to bite his lip not to scream. “Stevie!” he says again, louder this time.

The other man is startled into wakefulness, sitting up straight and staring wide-eyed at Finns. “What? Are you ok? Are you dying?"

“My legs might be,” Finns says, rubbing his sore thighs and breathing out in relief. “You slept for too long.”

Stevie rubs his eyes with the back of his hands, checks his watch. “It’s barely been an hour.”

“Tell that to my thighs! You have a really fat head, do you know that?”

“Do not.” The Englishman stretches his arms above his head, stifling a yawn. 

“I think it’s time for you to go home.”

“What?” Stevie frowns. “I’m not going home.”

“Of course you are.”

“Like shit. I’m staying here, with you.”

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Sure I can. I’ll just sit here -”

“You’re not sleeping on my legs again, fat head.”

“I can just ask for someone to bring in one of those beds for visitors.”

“What part of _I don’t want you to stay here_ you don’t get?”

“The part where _you_ don’t get that I’m not leaving you alone again." Stevie sticks his chin up defiantly.

Finns rolls his eyes at him. “Stevie, what exactly do you think is going to happen to me? This is a hospital.”

“Yeah, and you’re insane. For all I know you could just try to throw yourself out the window.”

“Oh, God…”

“You’re mentally unbalanced.”

“Bite me, Stevie. I am officially kicking you out.”

“Make me.” Stevie crosses his legs and arms and arches an eyebrow at Finns, daring him to move.

In any other day, Finns would thump him on the head. Today, though, he just can’t muster that kind of energy.

“You had a fight with Xabi, didn’t you? That why you don’t wanna go home?”

Stevie’s defiance morphs into clear discomfort as he shifts a little in his place, eyes moving away from Finns’. “Xabi has nothing to do with this.”

Finns shakes his head reprovingly. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

“Worrying about you and not wanting to leave you alone for the night in a cold and lonely hospital makes me an idiot? Oh, I'm sorry. I thought that made me a good friend.”

"Sweet Jesus..."

"If you didn't want to be worried, then maybe you should've considered all this before you went to the fucking woods."

“Don’t make this about me. This is about you and how you’re going to get yourself a divorce if you don’t stop acting like an arsehole to your husband.”

“I wasn’t an arsehole!” he screams, defensively, and then, “Well, he deserved it!”

"You are so predictable, Gerrard. I knew it the moment you got here that you had cocked something up."

“What did you expect me to do?! He knew you were here since the early morning and chose _not_ to tell me! Once more he sided up with that piece of shit of your boyfriend! As if the first time hadn't caused enough damage. Xabi should know better than that."

He considers mentioning that Daniel is now his _ex_ -boyfriend, but the mere thought of it stills stings, so he doesn't. Maybe if he ignores it for long enough it will just stop mattering, eventually. “He didn’t side up with anyone, Stevie. Xabi knows you. You were going to harass the doctors and nurses and start a fight with Daniel and Martin and get yourself arrested or something. Besides, I wouldn't have let you in if you had been here earlier today with the rest of them, so you should thank him for waiting until they were gone before telling you.”

“I don’t care. He should’ve told me.”

“You really don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“How hard this whole thing is for him. How many people do you think would accept the kind of thing we have? He feels insecure.”

Stevie lets out a short, ironic laugh that doesn't sound at all like a laugh; more like an old dog barking. “He’s got no fucking reason to be insecure!”

“I know that. You know that. He doesn’t. He can’t know that. He's not in your head.”

“How the fuck not, Finns? It’s been years. If anything was ever gonna happen between us, it would’ve already happened by now.”

“Well, you don’t like Sergio and he and Xabi are not nearly as close as we are. Just because they used to have a completely casual thing a million years ago.”

“That’s different.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, have you seen his fucking abs?! You can wash your clothes on his stomach, Finns! He’s always taking his fucking shirt off! That stupid cunt.”

Finns bursts into laughter at Stevie’s ridiculous admission that Sergio hurts his male ego - and gets a proper pang on his head for it. His laugh turns into a cry, prompting Stevie to lean forward, worried. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, yeah… Well, except for the part you don’t think I’m as hot as Sergio, so Xabi doesn’t have to worry about me.”

“That’s not what I meant, idiot.”

“For your information, I have been working out. My abs looks nice too. No one’s got abs like Sergio’s, it’s unfair to put that kind of pressure on me.”

“Finns,” Stevie says, staring him right in the eye, very solemnly. “Stop being ridiculous.”

Finns grins. “Well, I could tell you the same thing. Xabi’s probably home alone right now, feeling horrible for thinking you’re angry with him, wondering if you’re not surrendering to my great abs already, while you’re here, talking nonsense and being stubborn. Stop being ridiculous, Stevie.” Stevie slumps back against his chair, the creases on his forehead deepened further. Finns takes the opportunity to push harder. “Go home to your man, Gerrard. Enjoy the fact that you have one. Apologize for being such a dick and tell him you love him. Please.”

Stevie gazes away, thoughtfully, before answering around a sigh, “All right, I’ll do it. But with one condition.”

“… what?” Finns asks, suspiciously.

“If you promise you’ll forgive him too.”

“Stevie, my problems with Xabi have nothing to do with you. You don't have to be mad at him just because I am.”

“They have everything to do with me. If the two of you aren’t ok, then I can’t be ok. I can’t choose between you two, Finns. So you have to shake hands and love each other more than you love me, otherwise it’s just not going to work.”

Well, he has a point. Finns is probably not ready to forgive Xabi. Not entirely, anyway. What he did was wrong and it doesn’t matter what explanation the Spaniard might be able to conjure, nothing will ever justify the fact he decided to give Daniel a chance to be with Fernando. Xabi choosing to root for Fernando was like a stab to the back. He expected Daniel to screw up and cheat on him, but to be betrayed by Xabi… Now _that_ really hurt.

He doesn’t want to be a nuisance, though. Doesn’t want to stand in the way of his best friend’s happiness. Besides, if the alternative to forgiving Xabi is to step out of Stevie's life as to not cause any more trouble, than he's afraid he just can't do it. Stevie's basically everything he's got right now. Take him away and Finns becomes a hell of a lonely bastard. Maybe in a little while he'll be ready to be on his own, but right now - God knows how much he fucking needs his only friend.

“All right,” he finally answers. “I forgive Xabi.”

The smile that stretches on Stevie’s face is so big and radiant it makes Finns feel a little warmer inside. The Scouser jumps over him and starts placing noisy kisses all over his face. Finns pushes him back, frowning. “All right, all right… I get it, you’re happy! Enough.” Stevie chuckles and stops kissing him. “Get out of here now.”

“Ok,” he nods. “But I’ll be back in the morning.”

“I get discharged in the morning.”

“Even better. I’ll come pick you up.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“It’s decided, Finns. I’ll be here whether you want it or not.”

“God… Fine. Do whatever you want. Just fuck off already.”

“Call me if you need anything, ok? _Anything_. Doesn’t matter the time.”

“The only thing I need is to sleep.”

“Good.” Stevie places a peck on Finns’ mouth. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I’ll try.” He smiles. “Send Xabi my regards.”

“I'll tell him you said you love him and he's forgiven because he's gorgeous and you can't live without him.”

Finns rolls his eyes. "Yeah, same thing."

"Finns," Stevie says, still smiling, as he pushes back and takes his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Hm?"

"I love you, you dumbfuck."

The Irishman smiles tenderly back at his friend. "I know."

x-x-x

There’s a soft knock on the door before his secretary’s head pops in. “Mr. Alonso?” she calls, softly.

Xabi moves his eyes away from the computer for the first time in hours. Millions of colorful circles start dancing before him as he rubs his eyelids with the tip of his fingers to try and focus on the woman standing by the door. “Yes, Nagore?”

“Uhm,” she starts, a little hesitant. “I was wondering if - well, maybe I could - do you still need me for anything today?”

Xabi stops. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“What?!” Xabi takes his phone and checks that the hour is right. “Jesus, I didn’t even realize it. My God, Nagore, what are you still doing here?”

“Well, you were still here working, I thought maybe you would need me for something.”

“No. No, no, no. I’m so sorry. I got so distracted I forgot to tell you to leave. Please, go home. Do you need money for the taxi?”

“It’s ok, I can take the bus.”

“It’s late.”

“I know, but I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure? Can I offer you a ride?”

She seems surprised, her beautiful features crumpling up a bit. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s my fault you’re leaving work so late. It could be dangerous to be out alone, especially in those heels.”

“I can run in those heels,” she says, smiling. “And it’s really no bother, Mr. Alonso.”

“Just give me a minute and I’ll be out there with you, yeah?”

“Ok,” she says and walks out again.

God, when did time start flying by so fast? Xabi slumps back against his chair, rubs his face with the palm of his hands. Only now does he realize his stomach is roaring and his neck feels completely stiff from all those hours perched over the computer. Fernando’s writing is absolutely magnificent, but it is quite clear he has put too much of his own personal emotions into his work. His characters are all over the place, hating one another mere three chapters into the story. It’s not going to be easy guiding this one, but the storyline is definitely good. Xabi’s first instincts about new writers never betray him. He’s got a real talent in his hands, just need to help him shape up his ideas a little more.

But all this is gonna have to wait until tomorrow. Xabi’s really not looking forward to going home and finding an empty and cold apartment waiting for him, but he desperately needs a shower and a good cup of tea. He hopes there’s some left-over somewhere in his fridge too. 

Once he's done, he meets Nagore outside. “Ready?” he asks. She throws her purse over her shoulder and joins him. As they take the elevator, Xabi considers inviting her to eat something. It would be only fair that he paid her dinner after making the poor woman wait for so long. He’s not even sure there are any good places still open, probably only those crappy diners, but whatever. He’s so hungry he could eat grass right now. Although she doesn't really look like the kind of girl who eats cheap food. Nagore oozes grace and refinement. Xabi finds her really interesting, but they never really had time to sit down and talk. It's mostly just chit-chat and did you read this or have you watched that movie. Work takes most of their time. Maybe this would be a good time to get to know her better. For some reason he feels like they could be good friends.

In a different world, in some other life, maybe, they could even be more than that. There is something about Nagore that really attracts him. If Xabi didn’t like dick so much, that’s exactly the kind of woman he would go for. Stevie would probably go for something totally over the top, bordering on the outrageous. Big blond hair, fake boobs, short skirts and lots of fake tan. It’s the type of women he compliments the most whenever he has to. Xabi wonders how it is possible for someone to have such opposing tastes in women and men.

The thought brings a short little smile to his face, but it fades away as quickly as it comes. It’s the second night in a row that he’ll have to sleep alone. It brings a sour taste to his mouth.

“Are you hungry?” he asks Nagore as they leave the elevator and parade down the main hall of the building. He can see their reflection on the mirrored walls, walking side by side; they’d make a good looking couple.

“A little, I think,” she answers.

“Would you like to jo -”

Xabi’s speech is cut off the moment they leave the building. He stops dead in his tracks as he sees Steven standing outside, leaning against his car, parked right in front of the door.

“Hey...?” his husband ventures. It starts out as a greeting but winds more as a sheepish question than anything. “Hello, Nagore.”

“Hi, Mr. Gerrard,” the woman greets him. She then turns to Xabi and touches him fondly on the arm. “I’ll be on my way, then,” she says and gives him a wink.

“No, wait.” Xabi turns back to Stevie, still a little unsure of what to do. “I promised I’d give her a ride.”

“Oh,” Stevie says, a little downcast. “Right.”

“You don’t have to, Mr. Alonso. Really. I’ll take a cab right around the corner.”

“Let me at least give you some -”

“That’s totally unnecessary too. I can pay for my ride. Really. It’s fine.”

Sighing, Xabi accepts. “All right. Then at least take the day off tomorrow.”

Nagore laughs softly. “If you really mean it, I won’t decline that offer!”

“I do. You worked way more hours than you had to. I’m really sorry.”

“Not a problem! Good night, Mr. Alonso. Night, Mr. Gerrard!”

They watch in silence as she walks away and disappears around the corner.

“I really like your secretary,” Stevie says. “I’d be jealous if I wasn’t so sure you’re not into nice breasts.”

“What are you doing here?” Xabi asks, astonished rather than demanding.

Stevie smiles again. “Surprise,” he says, a lot less enthusiastically than he should, opening his arms in the air and then letting them fall back next to his body.

Xabi takes a couple of steps closer, although still at a safe distance. He’s not sure whether to be worried or happy to see his husband. “How did you know I was still here?”

“Nagore. I called her fifteen minutes ago.”

“I do have a cell phone, you know.”

“Yes, but if I had called _you_ it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” 

“I guess not.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Very,” Xabi nods. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight anymore. Thought you would be staying at the hospital.”

“I was. But I got kicked out.”

“Oh. Don’t they allow visitors to sleep there?”

“The hospital does. Finns didn’t.”

Xabi’s eyebrows lift in enquiry. “Why’s that?”

“He said I should go home and apologize to my beautiful husband for being such a knobhead.”

Xabi’s straightens his eyes at Stevie suspiciously. “Did he really say that?”

Stevie shrugs. “Not in those words.”

“How is he?”

“Got a deep cut on the side of his head and a split lip. He looks really battered too, like he’s sick or something, but I think it’s just tiredness. Other than that, he’s ok. They say he’ll be discharged in the morning.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Not exactly. But I guess it’s the best you can hope for when someone is in a hospital.”

“Yeah,” Xabi says, kicking a little stone with the side of his foot.

“They had to shave half of his head, though,” Stevie continues. “For the stitches. He’s gonna have to shave the rest of it.”

“Oh, God. He threw a tantrum, didn’t he?” Xabi’s never met anyone who loved his own hair as much as Finns, that’s for sure. In his defense, the man does have really good, luscious hair. Baldness definitely doesn’t suit him.

Stevie laughs a little. “I think he could do well with a new haircut, but he’s probably gonna cry when he sees himself bald. I remember this one time in college. We got really drunk at a party and Finns fell asleep on the couch and I decided it would be really funny to shave the top of his head. He didn’t speak to me until his hair started growing back.”

“God, Steven.” Xabi’s tone of disapproval doesn’t exactly match the playful smile on his lips. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah. I was a lousy roommate,” he speaks, and then turns to Xabi. “Now I’m a lousy husband.”

Xabi’s eyes wander away for a second as he takes a deep breath. “Look, Steven, I’m sor -”

“No. You don’t do the apologies here. I do.” Steven’s face sets into determination. “Xabi, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was an idiot to you. I’m sorry I yelled at you and that I blamed you for things that are not your fault. I’m sorry.”

Xabi shakes his head. “I was wrong. I should’ve told you about Finns as soon as I got the call - I don’t know what I was thinking. I was so worried I just ran out and then I thought you were going to be so devastated that I couldn’t even - I didn’t know how to tell you. I guess I just wanted to know he would be ok before I broke the news to you, so that I’d have something to hold on to.”

“You should’ve told me,” Stevie agrees. “But that doesn’t mean I get to be angry at you for not doing it. I gave you every reason to be apprehensive. And then I acted like a jerk and didn’t even stop to think that you needed some support as well. I allowed someone else’s mess to come between us and that’s worse than anything you’ve done. I don’t want you to think that you’re second place in my life or give you any reason to be insecure.”

“I’m joint first, then,” Xabi says, a twisted little smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No.” Stevie takes a step forward, holds his chin up and forces Xabi to look at him. “You’re the only first, Xabi. Since day one. It's always been you.”

“It’s ok to love your friend,” Xabi says, holding Stevie’s wrists and giving him a light squeeze. “I understand.”

“You don’t. You can’t understand because you don’t know the whole truth.”

Sighing, Stevie steps away and leans back against his car. Xabi’s eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something about Finns that I never told you. Never meant to. But I think you deserve to know why I’m allegedly obsessed with him.”

“Ok,” Xabi says, shifting a little in his spot. “I’m listening.”

Stevie is quiet for a moment and, when he starts talking, he hangs his head low. “When we got married, on the day of our wedding - I got cold feet.” 

Xabi’s eyebrows shoot up immediately. “You... What?”

“Yeah, it wasn't my best moment... I had been questioning the whole marriage thing for a while, but when Finns knocked on the door to see if I was ready for the ceremony, I freaked out. I was sweating like a pig and I would’ve run away. I know I would've. I was ready to get out, take a car - any car I could find - and just bolt.” Stevie blows out a breath and finally looks up at Xabi. “Finns locked the door, sat me down on a chair and said _‘You are the most pathetic man I have ever met’_. Those were his exact words. Then he started numbering all the reasons why I would be committing the worst mistake of my life if I fled and how I’d never be happy ever again if I didn’t marry you, because I would destroy not only my life but yours too. He talked nonstop for like ten minutes and he said all the things that I had spent weeks trying to come up with to convince myself that I was doing the right thing but couldn’t. I don’t know why, it’s like I had a mental block or something. So after I calmed down he helped me get ready, took my hand and walked me outside. He only let me go when you showed up. Then he knew I wouldn’t want to run anymore.” Stevie’s smile softens, eyes locked with the Spaniard's. “When I looked at you, Xabi, and you smiled at me, I had no doubts anymore. That was all it took, one look. To this day I can’t explain what was that panic, because it doesn’t make any sense. But whatever it was, it disappeared. Completely. And it never showed again. But I almost didn’t take that one look. And if it wasn’t for Finns, I don’t know if I would have.”

Xabi feels the air being knocked out of his lungs. He never even suspected all that had happened on their wedding day. As far as he knew, it had been a perfect, blissful day for both of them. If there was ever anything afflicting Steven, he never showed. The Spaniard doesn’t even know what to think, honestly.

“The thing is,” he continues when Xabi doesn’t say anything. “Finns had no reason whatsoever to guide me to the ceremony the way he did. I know it wasn’t easy for him, to see us getting married. I don’t know if he still had feelings for me, but I know it made him think a lot about his own life. Every time I looked for him he was standing by himself, on the sidelines, staring at nothing, just… Thoughtful. Sad, I guess. I hurt him a lot, more than he’ll ever admit. I know the damage I caused. And even after everything he was still there, reminding me that I had found the man of my life and carrying me all the way to you.” Stevie takes another deep breath. “So when I said yes to you that day, I promised myself two things. The first was that I would live every day of my life to make you the happiest man in the world. I would make sure that you would never, ever regret marrying me, like I knew that I would never regret marrying you.”

Xabi grins warmly. “And the second?”

“The second was that I would make sure that Finns would know that feeling too, one day. The absolute certainty that you have found the one. I promised myself that I would stand by his side and watch him get married to a guy who would look at him the same way I look at you. Because he deserves it, Xabs. He really does. And this is why I’m so obsessed with the people he chooses to date. If I don’t like the guy, I just say it. Finns deserves to have his Xabi.”

“Why did you never tell me any of that?”

“Because,” Stevie shrugs. “How was I going to tell you that I almost didn’t marry you? I didn’t want you to think that I was unsure.”

“You just had to tell me the whole story.”

“I didn’t want to go back there, Xabs. I'm not proud of that. Most of the time I just try to pretend like it never even happened because it embarrasses me.” He makes a pause. “So, do you hate me now?”

“Hate you?” Xabi snorts and presses himself against Stevie, placing a soft kiss on his lips. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.”

“Really?” Stevie kisses him back. “I would’ve told you that earlier if I thought you would like it.”

“Will you marry me? Again?”

“I’ll marry you every day if you want me to.”

“Do we get to have a honeymoon every day as well?”

Steven laughs again, lips pressed against his. Xabi feels his chest filling with warmness and an impossible affection. 

“Do you get now why I despise Daniel so much?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Xabi’s waist. In some subconscious level, the Spaniard is aware that they are out in public and, more specifically, in front of his work place. They probably shouldn’t be doing this, even though it’s really late and there’s hardly anyone still in the office. In the odd chance that his bosses didn’t leave earlier today to go figure skating with their kids or something equally quaint, they would probably not find it very amusing to see one of their senior editors in the middle of indiscretions with his husband. Everyone knows Xabi is married to a man, but it’s not the kind of thing he likes to flaunt about, if anything because he prefers to keep his personal affairs to himself.

Still, he missed these moments so much - the hugs and the kissing and the being happy simply for being together - that he doesn’t find it in him to stop Steven and gives himself into the caresses. 

“Even if none of that had ever happened you’d still have reason enough not to like him, honey. Finns is your best friend and Daniel has a long list of misbehaviors speaking against him.”

“I know. But it’s not just that. I spent the last four years fearing the day Stephen would show up for work engaged. Every single day. Daniel was never going to be the person who would make Finns the happiest guy on Earth. He knew better than me that Daniel wasn't the right lad for him, but he would've said yes if that cunt had proposed. It irked me to think I’d have to stand there and watch my best friend marrying that wanker just because he couldn’t handle the idea of being alone. So I always tried my best to make him see that he would never be alone because _I_ was there. He didn’t need to put up with Daniel’s bollocks just to have someone. I’m his friend and I’d be there.”

“Oh, Steven…” Xabi says as he makes a gentle caress on the side of his husband’s face. “I’m sure Finns appreciates your effort and I know for a fact that he is fully aware that he’ll never be alone for as long as you’re around. But you do realize that that’s not enough, right? You can’t give him everything.”

“Why not?”

“Well, unless you’re willing to sleep with him and keep his bed warm at night, I’m afraid there’s a part there that you’re neglecting.”

“Oh,” Stevie says, like he really hadn’t thought about that bit. “Well. No. Of course not. Finns and I are not like that anymore. You know that, right? We don’t even think about it, we don’t talk about it, I don’t look at him that way and neither -”

“I know,” Xabi cuts him off, otherwise he would just go on forever. “I don’t always remember, but I know.”

“You should keep that in mind, because it’s true. We have a lot of history and I know that there are maybe some unresolved feelings there, but it’s completely platonic and absolutely non-sexual. Even thinking of Finns that way is weird. It would be like kissing my mother or something.”

“That’s worse than kissing your brother.”

“Exactly.”

“Point taken.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to keep nurturing a useless shit bag just because you want to fuck him. There are thousands of guys out there Finns could bed without having to endure the consequences. He could fuck Sergio. I’m sure he’d be more than willing to help out.”

“You mean the same Sergio you scared away when we introduced the two of them years ago and Sergio mentioned he’d like to _tap that ass_?”

Stevie looks away, pouts. “That was ages ago, Xabi.”

“Right…”

“ _My point is_ ,” Stevie continues, with an eye roll. “He needs Daniel for shit nothing. He never did. It was a whim, a stupid bet he made with himself and he refused to let go. The lights were off, everyone left, the party was over, and Finns still held on to that motherfucker like he was a motherfucking wooden plank at the bloody Titanic.”

“Wow. That went really wide.”

“I know, but you get the idea.”

“I get your idea, but you don’t seem to get Finns’.” Stevie creases his brow at Xabi. “He fell in love with Daniel, Steven. It doesn’t matter how many absurd analogies you might find to try to explain the situation, it will simply be wrong if you leave that fact out of the equation. He loves Daniel. Maybe not since the beginning, but at some point in there it happened. And you know what? You can’t take it to yourself the job of deciding who’s suitable enough for Finns or not. Only he can decide that. If he chooses to be with an eighteen year-old or with a sixty five-year old, as long as it’s consensual, there’s really nothing you can do but accept. He’s the one who knows what makes him happy and - don’t even give me that face, Steven - Daniel _did_ make him happy. When you weren’t looking, they were being happy together, or it wouldn’t have lasted so long.” Xabi makes a pause. “You need to let him make his own choices, darling. Even if it’s going to break his heart afterwards. You just have to make sure he knows that you’ll be there to help him pick up the pieces. But you can’t be the guy who keeps saying ‘I told you so'. Everybody hates that guy.”

Stevie eyes him suspiciously for a second, but it slowly morphs into annoyance. “God, I hate it so much when you’re right.”

Xabi smiles victoriously. “You hate me a lot, then.”

“Almost all the time.”

The Spaniard laughs softly then places a peck on the corner of Stevie’s lips. “You know, I understand if you want to go back to the hospital to be with Finns tonight. You can tell him I said it's ok.”

“I can’t, he’ll have security kick me out if I try. Besides, I think he was right. There’s really nothing that can happen there tonight and he seems to be handling it fine. I’ll be back in the morning to pick him up and then we'll spend the day together.”

“You sure?”

Stevie nods. “Positive. I have something more important to deal with right here.” With a wolfish grin, he hides his face in Xabi’s neck and starts kissing him, first right under his ear, then down. Xabi lets a shaky breath out. It has been too long since they’ve been this close. Three days is an eternity.

“We should go home, then,” he says, suddenly very conscious of all the million windows on the building towering above their heads.

They get into the car like the world’s collapsing above their heads and they can’t make it home fast enough. Xabi doesn’t even bother with leaving his car behind; he can get it back tomorrow. Right now, there are more pressing issues and he’s not entirely sure he wants to ride home without the feeling of Steven’s warm hand on his thigh like a promise and a reminder. 

He needs to send Finns a big thank you card and maybe some Belgian chocolate as well.

x-x-x

As he watches Liverpool sparkling off in the distance from his twelfth floor window, Finns remembers a book he read once about a man who grows so abruptly disillusioned with his own meager existence that he begins an ultimately futile rebellion against the system. That, he thinks, could be the summary of his life right now. Except the system, in his case, would be himself, lost in the middle of an inert life. He wonders if this is what the mid-thirties feel like to everyone. 

Everything has gone predictably quiet since Stevie left, leaving Finns in the company of perspective. Perspective, you see, is the Queen Bitch. It always strikes you at your lowest, makes you feel awfully lonely and turns on all the Hopeless buttons in your brain.

Finns has been thinking, which can be terribly dangerous when you’re walking the fine line between sadness and depression. But it’s kind of inevitable, late at night, city sparkling off in the distance, twelfth floor window and everything. He’s been wondering about the things Dr. Ballsy, the keeper of his darkest secret, said to him. Why did he decide to go batshit insane, act like a sixteen year-old on crack and go to one of Liverpool’s hot spots for people with dubious characters and questionable behaviors, all gathered behind the convenient protection of trees?

It's the kind of place that attracts teenagers only beginning to figure themselves out. High-on-hormones boys who are too scared to come out but want desperately to have a little taste of what being an openly gay man in Liverpool is. In other words, they want to have a fuck, except they have no idea what they're getting themselves into. Because it attracts so many boys, it also attracts more weird pedophiles anyone can count. Finns wasn't a teenager in Liverpool, but Stevie was and he's told him everything about how all his friends lost their virginities to older men with rude hands and terrible bed manners. Some of them went on for years without any kind of intimate relationships after that. Not very fond memories, then. Perhaps why Stevie was so horrified to find Finns had been there - not as a weird old guy, but as one who, in very little control of his faculties, wanted exactly just that: a rough fuck. Finns had this idea that acting like a young, reckless person would somehow patch him back together and stop the worthless-old-shit streak currently running through him. Stevie knows just how many people went there for that same purpose and ended up regretting it terribly. Rapes are not unheard of. Violence is an ever present possibility. It's really hit and miss - maybe more misses than hits. Some wackos, such as Martin, love to be on the receiving end of that sort of thing. Not Finns, though. Never him.

His mind reels as he tries to compose his thoughts, unearthing threads of reasoning and memories he had lost in the middle of the myriad of things that keep on rushing through his head at full speed, all the time, nonstop. It’s kinda hard to focus, really.

Putting it simply, he lost it. Freaked out. Panicked. 

At some point during that tormented night, it dawned on him that Daniel had been his last shot. At love, at happiness, at finding his Xabi, at not being alone forever.

Finns dedicated four years of his life towards making a doomed relationship work because he _needed_ it to succeed. Failure was not an option. He wanted so badly to have found the one person who would be the all and all for him that the inevitable truth was ultimately too much for him to bear. Finns felt old and battered and despaired; that’s how Daniel made him feel. Ever since that argument, where his ten years younger boyfriend told him that he couldn’t possibly understand his cravings because he was simply ‘over’ that phase. 

Finns hadn’t realized until now how much those words had been seared onto his subconscious. He looks at the faint reflection staring back at him on the window glass and sees a man who is edging closer to his forties than he is to his thirties, and yet he still feels like there is a big chunk of his life missing. A space that was supposed to have been filled out by Daniel, but that has been entirely emptied again after that ‘you’re too old to understand me’ bollocks. 

And then there is Fernando. Young, gorgeous, freckled, incredible arse, Spanish. Just a breath of fresh air. Everything that Finns isn’t. What can be worse than being replaced by someone like _that_?

In his desperate attempt to feel youthful and desirable again, Finns went to the judgment free land. He could’ve gone to Mercy, that’s true, but fear of rejection stopped him. It wasn’t certain he would find someone at Mercy. Guys at Mercy also prefer men like Fernando. No, the woods is the place where questions are not asked and any willing ass can find an equally willing cock, regardless of age or appearance.

Now he realizes how incredibly lucky he was that he didn’t actually get to have sex with anyone, otherwise he’d be feeling twice as pathetic as he does right this moment. And the only person who knows anything about it is Dr. Smartarse. Finns wonders what he would say if he told him all this. It’s curious that it’s Dr. Insolent that comes to his head right now; not Stevie, not Xabi, not any person he’s known for more than 24 hours. No. Dr. Harry Kewell.

As if on cue, there’s a soft knock on the door. “Hi,” comes the by now familiar voice. “Ah, you’re up. Glad to see you’re feeling better.” Finns doesn’t have to look back to know he’s smiling. He can hear it on his voice.

There's a chilly breeze against his legs, sending an ice cold shiver up his spine. And then it hits him: his gown has an opening on the back - and he is still not wearing anything underneath it. Finns squints his eyes and tries to catch Dr. Kangaroo’s reflection on the window. He’s standing a few feet back, arms crossed, grinning - and also having a perfect view of his buttocks.

“Crap,” he mutters around a sigh.

“What?”

"I said, _crap_ ," he repeats, louder this time.

"Still not happy to see me, then?"

“It's not that, it's - I’m naked.”

“You’re wearing your gown.”

“That’s not much use when I turn my back to people, is it?”

Harry chuckles. “Well, yes. But I’m not looking, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Brilliant,” Finns shakes his head, but still doesn’t move. What’s the point, anyway? He's already seen it. “There goes the little dignity I still had.”

“You shouldn’t feel too bad. I’m a doctor.”

“Not the type that stares at people’s arses.” Finns takes a deep, rueful breath, his hands tightening around the IV trolley as he turns at last. “This is a pretty stupid piece of clothing, by the way.”

Dr. Kewell has a bright, amused smile on his face. It makes it twice as embarrassing to be in this state of undress in front of an actually attractive doctor, doesn’t it? 

“Wanna go on a tour around the hospital? Stretch your legs? I could take you,” he offers.

“Sure. Because one doctor having a view of my arse isn’t enough, I need the whole hospital to see it.”

Kewell laughs. “That’s rubbish. Not to diminish your ass, but we’re used to seeing bare behinds all day. This is a hospital, Mr. Finnan.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to some of those queens at Mercy and you’ll have a lot more gay doctors in this city.” Finns makes a pained face as he tries to climb back into bed. He is sore all over, sore as he has ever been on his life. Moving the joints of his hips and legs is so painful he wonders if they will ever properly support his weight again. Doctor Kewell takes a step forward to help, but the Irishman stops him by raising his palm up. “I can do it,” he says, stubborn, to which the doctor cocks him an amused eyebrow. “I know I look like a 95 year-old Angelina Jolie with these swollen lips, but I can still climb a bed.” Harry laughs that infectiously annoying laugh of his, but puts both his palms out in surrender and takes a step back as Finns tries again. “It’s just a little pain,” he lies. “Not even a burden. Just uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I didn’t even look directly are your… parts. I’m so used to it by now that they all look the same to me.”

“Well, now you’re being offensive,” he says, easing himself back against his pillows and panting in relief. “Are you saying I don’t have an arse worth noticing?”

The doctor straightens his eyes thoughtfully at Finns. “I think that’s a tricky question, so I’ll abstain myself from answering.”

“Smart boy,” Steve says, not quite containing the tiny smile curving up the corner of his lips.

“So,” the doctor continues, approaching the bed again. “I was informed you had a visitor.”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“He left.”

“What? Home?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh. I thought he would be staying for the night,” the doctor says, sounding slightly disappointed.

“I wasn’t aware that I needed someone to oversee an ugly cut.”

“Is that what you told him? That it was an _ugly cut_?”

The question comes as softly as it possibly can, but Finns can hear all the inflections and implications behind that silky tone of voice. “What I tell him or not is none of your business,” he says, his voice waspish in reply. 

“I’m not judging you.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

Dr. Kewell inhales deeply, stares at Finns for a long spell, like he’s about to unload stupid psychiatric bullshit on him again. But then he stops, purses his lips, stuffs his hands in his white coat’s pockets. “I’m not sure I should give you the news I came here to deliver.”

“What news?”

“I don’t want you to go home like this. You’re too stubborn.”

“W-what?” Finns stutters, his heart racing already. “What do you mean, you can’t let me go home? I’m going home tomorrow morning, you can’t keep me here.”

“As a matter of fact, I can. I can still change my mind about your condition, which I’m inclined to do. But the thing is, you got an early discharge. Your doctor said that, clinically, you’re fine. And I agreed with him that perhaps a less stressful environment could do you good. Like going home to sleep on your own bed. Hospitals aren’t really friendly places and you often get a lot of time to think, which isn’t always desirable after traumatic events. You should be somewhere where you feel safer.”

Finns blinks slowly at him. “… so why can’t I go?”

“Because I don’t think you’re ready to be alone. You refuse to accept that you need support and you’re aggressive to anyone who tells you so.”

Finns bites on the inside of his mouth. “I just… I can’t… I want to forget last night ever happened, which I won’t be able to do with this stupid hair and this split lip, but that’s what I want. I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to get scolded like a child but I know exactly what I did and I am embarrassed enough this way. What I definitely don’t need is some doctor with unorthodox methods to judge me.”

And this is what Stephen comes to realize, in that precise moment: what he wants is penitence for his mistakes, forgiveness for being an idiot, torture so that he can feel alive again, so that he can have some purpose. He wants anything but this hospital bed and this ugly feeling of eyes just looking at him, judging him, being sorry for him.

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” Dr. Kewell says, taking another step closer. “I’m not judging you, Stephen. I’m genuinely concerned. I think you’re a nice guy who had a major disappointment and did something you’re not proud of. It’s ok to be embarrassed, but it’s more normal than you think to screw up the way you did. We’ve all been through that before. But I look at you right now and it’s almost like you can’t stand to live with yourself, so yes, I’m worried. I would hate for that feeling to take over you. I’m just trying to help. And I really think you could use a friend right now.”

As someone who possesses an admirable rhetoric, Finns recognizes a lost argument when he hears one. If this was any other day, in any other place, he would give Dr. Kewell some credit for beating him at his own game. Not tonight, though. Finns means to say he appreciates the sentiment, but he would rather be spared of the compassion, lest he starts wallowing in self-pity. Instead, he says nothing.

“Can you call your friend back?” the doctor continues. “Maybe he could go home with you, spend the night?”

“No,” he answers flatly. “He’s got his own thing to worry about.” 

“Isn’t this more important than what he has to worry about? Right now, I mean? I know you didn’t tell him everything, but I imagine he would be worried if he knew.”

“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. And I’m not more important than anything. I’ll be fine. Frankly, if you’re going to wait for someone to come here and take me home you can just book me a room for the rest of my life, because no one’s coming. That’s it. It’s just me.” 

“Oh, God…” the doctor says around sigh. “Are you always this much of a pain in the ass or are you just putting up a show for me?”

“Keep me here longer and you’ll eventually find out.”

Dr. Kewell stares at him studiously for a moment. “All right. How about you at least let me give you a lift, then?”

Finns’ eyebrows knit together. “A lift?”

“My shift will be over in…” he checks his wristwatch. “… about ten minutes. I could drive you home.”

“I think I’m perfectly capable of -”

“Yeah, we’ve been through that already, I know you’re perfectly capable of doing whatever the hell you want. I agreed with your discharge from the hospital, but I could still change my mind. I’d be a lot more comfortable knowing that you’re safe.”

“Is this… normal?”

“What do you mean?”

“How often do you offer to take your patients home?”

“Never.” Harry’s smile is kind and sincere and it could all be just for show, just because Finns is too proud and he’s a trained doctor, but it still connects to some cord inside Finns’ chest. It’s just something about the way that man looks at you… Like he can see right through your eyes, peer into your soul. Finns feels _nakeder_ right now than he did a moment before, flaunting his bare behind. “If anything happens to you, it will be my fault,” Harry continues when Finns doesn’t say anything, too stunned for a proper reaction. “You’re my patient. I feel responsible. If you get out of here and do something idiotic, it will be because I missed something. So please, let me take you home. At least I’ll keep you distracted for a while longer. Besides, I’ve been told more than once that I’m a wonderful company.”

Staring at that infuriatingly smug grin in front of him, Stephen sighs and gives up.

x-x-x

Finns keeps flipping the little white card in his hands, leaned against the elevator mirror as it goes up. Dr. Harry Kewell, it says. Psychiatrist. Bold, black, glossy letters in high relief against the pure white textured background. It looks posh, he thinks. Expensive.

There are three different phone numbers written on it. The first is from his private practice - he owns one all by himself; works only a couple of days a week at the hospital ( _'I really like being in touch with the hospital patients_ ', he explained, ' _but it's the practice that gets the bills paid, you know?_ '); the second is his work mobile number, the one his patients must use whenever they need to speak to him with urgency; the third one wasn't originally written on the card. It's been rapidly scribbled down in blue ink pen by Harry just a few minutes before.

"This is my private number," he said. "You can call me anytime. Even tonight, if you feel like it. Don't worry about waking me up or anything, I don't have to be at the office until noon tomorrow." He spoke that part with such a proud smile on his face Finns wasn't sure whether to find him charming or just smug. _See how great I am? I have my own office and I can show up for work whenever I feel like it._ Show-off.

"If you want to talk or if you feel it's getting too much - please, don't do anything stupid, ok? Don't get drunk again, don't - do the other stuff, either. You've just recovered from a near -"

" _I know_ ," Finns had to stop him with an annoyed grunt. "You don't have to remind me."

"Just making sure," Harry continued. "But anyway, just call me, yeah? Even if you have nothing to say. If you feel you must, do. I'll be glad to speak to you."

They sat quietly in the car together for a while longer, Finns staring into Harry's dark brown eyes, his pupils so dilated it just looked black, which drew Finns more and more into it, entranced. When Harry blinked, Finns watched his lashes - such thick lashes - lying for just a split-second against his bronzed cheek. He wondered where Harry got that tan from. Weren't doctors supposed to work their asses off? _I have my own practice, I work when I want_ , he could hear that Australian accent saying. 

The moment where one or both of them should've looked away came and went, but neither of them did. Finns only realized Harry was leaning forward when their faces were inches away from one another. He drew in a sharp intake of breath, his heart skipping a few beats in the process, and closed his eyes. He doesn't know why, but something made him absolutely ready to kiss the doctor - only the doctor's lips didn't touch his, moving instead to make warm contact with his cheek.

He cannot deny he did feel a little disappointed.

"Be well, yeah?" Harry said, pulling away. Finns was certain he had blushed at that precise moment - his face was _burning_ \- but if Harry noticed he was kind enough not to mention it. 

Finns took some ten minutes just to be able to control his wobbly legs and make his way to the elevator - and he can still feel Harry's kiss burning on his skin.

For some reason, that moment - the small talk in the car, Harry's infectious laughter, his good-natured smiles and that tiny, little kiss on his cheek - it gave him some sort of strength. More than that, it gave him some sense of trust and comprehension - colored by irony, yes, but still. It gave him hope, which is more than Finns can say about anything else in his life right about now. Not even the prospect of leaving the hospital and returning home seems very encouraging. It will be empty and messy and it will still feel like Daniel all over the place.

He would've preferred to stay in the car with Harry, just listening to the sound of his voice all night long. Finns found that to be rather soothing. Maybe it was the accent. Or the foreign scent. Either way, he wants to keep that sensation alive for as long as he can, just to take him through the night. The first one is always the worst, right? He's got more than enough demons to keep him awake; Finns will gladly grasp at whatever he can to have some peace of mind. Dr. Harry Kewell and some sleeping pills might do the trick.

Except the minute he walks out of the elevator, after all that inner pep-talk, he realizes it was all just wishful thinking.

Daniel's sitting outside his apartment, leaning against the door. His head snaps up like a thunder when the elevator door opens and in less than a second he's standing to his feet, lips parted like he's frozen mid-breath and forgot how to continue from there.

Something close to despair sweeps through Finns' central nervous system. Daniel is the last person on earth he needs to see right now. If there had been a burglar waiting to rob his flat and stick a knife to his eye it would probably have been less terrible than this.

"Steve..." Dan says, letting out a breath as though he had been holding it back for days. "Jesus, you - What have they - Your face, you're - God, I -"

"Do you plan on finishing any of your sentences?" he asks. Finns' voice is harsh, but restrained. He clings to his exterior poise out of the strength of his pride alone. His morale might be falling apart, but his steps are firm and his eyes are ice cold. 

Daniel swallows. "I'm sorry," he says.

Finns stops a few safe steps away from him. Every hair on his body stands to attention - like there's electricity in the air between the two of them. "What are you doing here?"

"I..." Dan stops, looks down at a cardboard box lying next to him, then to the door to his side, as though he has momentarily forgotten how to speak. "I moved out," he finally continues. "I mean, I packed all my stuff. Figured you wouldn't want to go through that after - all this," he nods towards Finns' head, his face contorting as he does so. "I've already taken all the other boxes to the studio, there was just this last one. I think I remembered everything, but you might still find something lost somewhere. You can just throw it out."

"I will." Finns considers thanking him for the benevolence of sparing him of the pain of having to go through all his things, but he's not exactly feeling grateful right now, so he doesn't. "That still doesn't explain why you're sitting in front of my door. If that's the last of it, what's keeping you?"

"I decided to come back and wait for you, but I left my keys - well, your keys - in the kitchen. I forgot the door doesn't open from the outside." Daniel smiles awkwardly. "So I had to sit outside."

"I thought I made it very clear I didn't want to see you."

Every word he speaks hit Daniel like a slap to his face. The undisguised expression of hurt he's wearing just keeps on getting worse. Finns suspects he might cry, maybe, although he doesn't think Daniel is that kind. He's never seen him crying before. 

"I just wanted to see you, Steve. I needed to know that you're -"

"How did you even know I'd be out tonight?"

Daniel swallows down harder. "I called the hospital. They said you had already been discharged."

"Oh," he says. Mental note: remember to tell the hospital they are strictly forbidden from giving information through the phone as well the next time. "Well, that's grand. I'm here, right? You've seen me. Still in one piece. You can leave now."

"Steve..." Daniel says, almost as a plea.

"What? What do you still want from me, Daniel? You've taken everything already. I've got nothing to offer anymore. Just go away." _Slap, slap, slap._

The response cause a momentary flicker of pain to cross Daniel's features. "I know you don't even want to look at me right now -"

"Do you?" Steve snarls back at him, cutting off his attempt at a reasonable sort of speech, the patronizing I-get-you-hate-me-but-be-the-better-man-and-let-me-talk-my-crap-to-ease-my-guilty-conscience before he even gets the chance to expand on it. "Because it doesn't seem like you do. If you did, you wouldn't be here. To me it seems like you genuinely think I didn't mean my words, or that I'm about to crack if you continue to look at me with those puppy eyes, so allow me to make myself clear to you again, Daniel: we have absolutely _nothing_ to say to one another. Nothing."

"Well, I have something to say," he replies, standing up straighter and trying to toughen up a bit. "You don't have to say anything, you just have to listen to me for five minutes, ok? That's all I'm asking, just five minutes and I'll be out of your life forever, if that's what you want."

" _Just_ five minutes?" Finns stuffs his hands in his pockets in a way that says he's not at all backing down. " _Now_ you want _just_ five minutes? How many five minutes did you have in the past week? More than a week, really. You've had an entire month of five minutes to explain yourself or apologize or say whatever other bullshit you might have to say now. While you were staying out late, God knows where, fucking that precious boy of yours - your _boyfriend_ , like he said - I gave you hundreds of five minutes - _millions_ of fucking five minutes while I waited for you to come home and you didn't. I spent dozens of nights awake, waiting for a miserable phone call, and you didn't even remember I existed. So now you ask me for _just_ five minutes? I don't have one minute more to give you, Daniel. I'm done with you, I'm done with giving you time. I've given you four years and that's enough. I won't give you another second."

Real anger, mixed with hurt, is beginning to rise up inside Finns now, weighting over his chest. The look of absolute pain in Daniel's eyes makes him feel faintly guilty, but it's a brief emotion, so Finns just stares at him and remembers how awful his night was until it goes away.

Daniel finally looks like he wants to scurry and hide, get out of there as soon as possible to find a corner he can bury himself into, shuddering and edging away at his words.

"And just to clarify," Finns adds after a beat. "It's not _if_. You're already out of my life. Now I want you out of my building too."

"Steve..." _Oh, God_. Finns lets out a frustrated grunt and rolls his eyes at him. What the hell else does he need to say to make that kid go away? It's like they're back at the beginning all over again, only now with added bitterness and resentment. "I know I hurt you - and I'm sorry, I really am. I could stay here until Christmas apologizing and it still wouldn't be enough." _Dear God, why?_ Will he need to call the police? Beat him with a stick? Threaten to kill his entire family? "But that's not what I want to say. What I want is - well, what I _don't_ want... I don't want you to think that I was just wasting your time. I wasn't fooling around, Steve - I loved you. I still do. I can't put into words how awful I feel right now for all that I've caused you - Jesus, I thought you were gonna die last night, I couldn't even..." His voice pitches low, more than a little shaky around the edges. "I just don't want you to think that you weren't loved or that you didn't matter, because -"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Daniel," he cuts him off abruptly yet again. Daniel's mouth shuts with an audible snap. "What do you honestly expect to achieve by this? Do you think any of this bollocks is gonna make me feel better? Or do you think that I will somehow find it in me to forgive you so that we can be all friends? You, me and your boyfriend."

"No, that's not what I -"

"Then what is the fucking point?" Daniel looks like he's about to say something for a moment there, but then his shoulders drop and he swallows it all back inside. "I don't know what you expect from me, but I'll tell what you should _not_ expect: forgiveness, solidarity, sympathy, compassion. Certainly don't expect me to be the greater human being who's going to understand your misery and absolve you from your guilt. You should feel every bit as guilty as you do. I'll give you this, though; if what's bothering you is the fact I got hurt last night, then don't worry. I blame you for many things, but not for this. Last night's all on me. You can relax."

"It's not just about last night."

"Well, then there's really nothing I can do for you. If you want so much to pour your heart out, you should go find some more willing pair of ears. Have you spoken to Fernando recently? Last I heard of him he wasn't so happy with you either. But he's new, right? You haven't fucked him up too deep yet, maybe he'll buy all that crap like I used to. All I want now is to get into my apartment and go to bed, so if you really want to do something for me, just move out of the fucking way."

The Dane stares at him with his heart in shatters for a moment before nodding his head, picking up his box from the floor and moving away from the door. It's quite a sad scene, he thinks, the perfect figure of misery, but Finns is angry and hurt and sore in more than just one way, so he doesn't care. He doesn't feel sorry. He just wants Daniel to go. 

Finns doesn't even look at him as he brushes by. "Goodbye, Daniel," he says before slamming the door on his face.

The minute he sets foot inside and the door clicks shut and he is completely engulfed by the darkness of his empty apartment, Finns feels his knees starting to give in under his weight. His entire body is shaking - it begins with the erratic and desperate drumming of his heart and radiates outwards. Suddenly, he can't stay up anymore, has to lean his back against the door and then slowly slide down until he's sitting with his knees bent and his face buried in his hands.

His eyes are burning with tears he is fiercely trying to fight back. His entire mask of being strong and determined and not giving a flying fuck about Daniel comes completely undone, rolling down his cheeks and tasting salty as it reaches his mouth. It's only then he realizes he still has the card in his hands, crushed so hard as he balled his fists instinctively. Crumpled, but you can still see the number on it. 

He considers calling the doctor for a whole of two seconds before making a little ball with the card and throwing it away. Who is he kidding? 

There is nothing a doctor can do for him right now. His problem is not physical, and it's not in his head either, it's a little further down, trapped behind his ribcage.

This, Finns thinks, is what a heartbreak feels like - when someone says something you have wanted to hear for so long - I wasn't fooling around, Steve. I loved you. I still do. - and you can't imagine anything more awful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, the next chapter was originally the last one. =O But since it was way too big, I broke into smaller parts, so you'll have three or two chapters instead of one. Either way, that's the beginning of your finale right there! Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's been reading this story all this time. It really means a lot to me. :) And I always appreciate your feedback! The only reason why I even keep writing is because I get all these super nice and sweet comments, and now that we're heading towards the ending that even more important. So if you'd like to say anything at all, just go ahead. :)


	19. I like to keep my issues drawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 1 of 3 of the finale. So if it doesn't read like a finished chapter, it's because it really isn't. This is just to paint a picture of what's happened in the boys' lives a few months after the last chapter and how they're coping. Resolution will come in the next two bits.
> 
> Please forgive me for all the mistakes. They're all exclusively mine as the story hasn't been beta'ed.

**_Four months later..._ **

"I can't fucking believe I'm about to say that, but you leave me no other choice," Martin declares in an absolutely dutiful tone. "I am officially staging an intervention."

It's a Thursday night, the 12th consecutive one where Daniel hasn't set foot out on the street. It's been at least two weeks since he's last seen the sunlight. Or at least that's what Martin said. Daniel hasn't really been keeping count. It could be a lot more than that for all he knows. His entire universe contracted into the interior of that studio-slash-apartment and the Olympics-level test of sulking with minimum dignity, minimum pride - while maintaining as much control as possible.

Admittedly, Daniel knows his situation is rather dire. He just hasn't internalized the notion yet. If he's being absolutely honest with himself, he can kind of see how he needs an intervention, because God knows he's not about to start moving on out of his own accord. It's too comfortable to sit in his dark, smelly apartment, wallowing in self-pity all day long, feeling sorry for himself, suffocating in smoke and not having to face the big, bad judgmental world outside.

Nobody can say he didn't try, though. Daniel did make an effort - in the beginning, anyway. He sold a couple of his paintings, made enough money to pay for the most urgent matters - heating, electricity, the rent, some food, piles and piles of cigarettes. 

All those checks went on for years being signed by Steve. He never realized how much money his boyfriend - _ex_ boyfriend; he's gonna have to start thinking about Steve with an _ex_ before his name at some point - spent on him. Daniel never _wanted_ to be so dependable, but he simply didn't have a penny to his name. Steve, on the other hand, had several. What was he supposed to do? Daniel never asked for anything; in fact, he said several times that he'd give up the studio and find somewhere else to use as storage and occasional work place. Probably Martin's place or something. _'Nonsense'_ , was Steve's only reply to that. They had several arguments about it - because Daniel is poor and fucked up, but he's also very proud, which is not a very good combination. Steve ended the quarrel by having all the bills delivered straight to his office. 

Daniel never even saw how much money he was spending. Until about four months ago, that is, when Steve had an office boy deliver all the papers to the studio along with a note informing him that it'd been arranged for the next ones to go directly to his address.

It's interesting how Dan only had this moment of clarity months after their break-up. Now he can kind of understand how Gerrard could've thought that he was some sort of gold-digger. It really was a lot of money and it wasn't even everything - Dan lived with him and never gave Steve one penny to help with the finances. Not that Steve would ever take money from him anyway, but still. That's just one more item on his humongous list of Things To Apologize For.

It still feels offensive that anyone would think of him as a gold-digger, though, because it's not true. It never was. Maybe having money was part of who Steve was; growing up as a rich man obviously shaped his personality, just as growing up as a fucked up junkie shaped Dan's. But that was never what attracted the Dane to the other man. He couldn't care less about the money. There's nothing stopping Stevie from having the wrong idea about him, but he sure hopes Steve hasn't started sharing his opinions now that they're apart. Not about money, anyway. The rest is a little harder to argue against.

Martin is still talking, although Daniel simply zoned out and stopped listening. He can see his friend's mouth moving, but his mind is millions of miles away. The Dane sighs. He feels so tired all the fucking time, even though he doesn't really do anything anymore. Well, he still paints, sometimes. It's ironic that now that his life is in shatters he doesn't seem to have a problem painting anymore. The perfect cliché, isn't he? He's become the afflicted, constantly broken-hearted and sulking artist stereotype. The ones that go to the most extreme bottoms of life in order to get inspiration for their art. All he needs now is to start paying some hookers and voilà. 

The truth is Daniel's painting his own life right now as the perfect picture of anguish. And the reason why he doesn't do anything to change any of it is because he's convinced he deserves to be just as fucked up as he is right this moment, lying lifeless under seven layers of shit.

He doesn't even try not to think about all the one million and one ways in which he's ruined his life. Simon keeps telling him that the secret to moving on from this phase is finding something else to focus on, but the truth is that he doesn't want to focus on anything else. This is his punishment. He's got way too much time in hand and more regrets than he can count, so, basically, all he does is think. The only exception is when he's painting. When he paints, he doesn't think, he just feels, which is much worse in many cases, but the irony here is that he's probably never been as creative in his life as he is right about now.

He realizes Martin's stopped talking and blinks his friend back into focus. The Slovakian is waiting for some kind of reaction. Daniel's got no idea what the fuck he spent the last ten minutes babbling about, so he says the only thing he can come up with: "I don't need an intervention."

Martin bloats like a blow fish.

"Oh, yes, you do," he retorts, hands on his hips. "And the fact you think you don't just makes it all the more obvious. From now on, Simon won't bring you any more food, Nick won't bring you any more weed and I will definitely not be brightening up your days with my fabulous company. Whatever you want, you're gonna have to get your ass out of that couch and get it yourself," he says, with an air of finality. It's an ultimatum.

Daniel watches him studiously for a second. Then shrugs and says, "Fine," because he thinks that might be what Martin needs to hear to leave him alone.

Martin purses his lips, probably considering whether thumping Dan on the head would be a good idea or not. Daniel wouldn't even react if he did it. "You say that now," the Slovakian insists. "But I bet if I come back here in a week, you'll still be sitting at that same spot, wearing those same clothes and dying from dehydration. Daniel, you look like you were grown in a dark and damp environment. You're gross. I think you might be turning into moss."

"Don't you have some butt to go fuck wherever, Martin?" 

"I have several butts to fuck, Dagger, but right now I'm more interested in not letting yours go to waste and you should be grateful I'm still trying. I just want to help you, in case you haven't noticed. But dramatic situations require dramatic attitudes. I am no interventioner, but that's my last card. And don't think all you have to do is get your phone and cry a little to Simon, 'cause he agrees with me. And by peer pressure, so does Nick. Nobody is coming to your rescue this time."

"Fine," he repeats, inwardly hoping that Martin will be satisfied with his own savior-of-the-day performance and go home thinking he can tick off his yearly good deed and go back to not bothering.

"But that's not all," Martin continues, much to Daniel's rue. "You need to get out of here, Dan. Breathe something other than old pork meat and ink - even the cigarettes are annoying me, can you believe that?"

"Are you going to offer me some coke?" he asks, a funny grin on his face, but Martin is having none of it.

"Only if you deserve it, and right now you don't. What I have for you is an encouragement, if you like," he makes a short pause. "We need you at Mercy."

Daniel deadpans, waiting for him to complete that sentence because it can't possibly be everything if Martin thinks he's being _encouraging_. But Martin doesn't say anything and Dan figures he actually means it, whatever the hell he's thinking, so he barks out a rueful laugh.

"You can't seriously expect me to say yes to that, Martin. I mean, come on - look at me. Do I look like a guy who's gonna take _Mercy_ as a form of _encouragement_?"

"It's not for partying. It's for helping out with the renovation."

Oh, yeah. The fucking renovation. Daniel doesn't really know what the hell that renovation thing is all about because he simply never felt interested enough to ask. But he did hear something from Simon or Nicklas the last time they stopped by - that and how Martin and Sergio had been working _very closely_ almost every day - and every night - of the week. Was it any other time of his life, Dan would've perched himself on the armrest of a chair and sat through a very thorough explanation of everything with eager eyes and ears - Martin, with a _boyfriend_? That's definitely something he'd want to know more about.

Right now, however, he simply cannot muster the energy to give a shit.

"Martin..." he whines in protest. 

"Mercy has been closed for a month, which you would know if you had stepped outside for thirty seconds to interact with your bitch community." Daniel frowns at how offended his friend seems to be about the fact he doesn't know what's going on at Mercy. 

"No wonder you're being such an ass," Dan comments. "They shut down your playground."

"Temporarily. And we're all helping out to make it twice as fabulous as it used to be. We're gathering voluntaries and I want you there."

"No fucking way."

"Daniel," Martin admonishes.

"I'm done with that shithole. It brought nothing but misery to my life. If it depended on me it would be shut down forever."

Martin bites his lip and balls his fists like he's about to jump Daniel and rip his head off. He's got his baby-eater eyes on, the one that gets people to cross the street if they see him walking directly towards them on the sidewalk. Martin is a queen through and through, the type that can't resist glitter and feathers and Lady Gaga pumping on the radio, but you'd never tell only by looking at him. The bald head, the tattoos, _those eyes_... He can scare the shit out of the biggest macho of machos out there.

"Oh, fuck you, Dagger," he roars. "You should have more respect towards the place that made you a fucking _man_. If you have gone back to being a fucking pussy, it has nothing to do with Mercy." Call Martin whatever the hell you want, but do not talk down on his favorite night club. He gets murderous.

"It didn't make me a man, it made me fucking miserable," Daniel retorts.

"Grow some balls, will you? You're blaming a fucking night club for being dumb. That place has given you _everything_ over the years. It's been your second home, Dagger, and don't even try to deny it 'cause you know I'm right. Now they need your help. And just to make it absolutely clear, I'm not asking. This is an order. Starting tomorrow, I want you there every morning. You'll be showing up every single day until the grand reopening night, in two weeks. Complain all you want, see if I care. You can either show up willingly or I can have the police dragging you out."

"Why the fuck would the police bother solving your petty fights and dragging me out of my house?"

"You are crossing me, Daniel Agger, and I have contacts."

He could go on arguing, but it would be useless. Once Martin gets set upon something, it's hard to remove him of his idea, however stupid it might be. It seems he either doesn't get the proper way of 'staging an intervention' or realistically thinks that being aggressive is the best possible approach. Either way, it's a battle lost for Daniel.

"You're such an asshole," he says in a defeated manner.

"Maybe. But don't think you're any better than me." Satisfied, Martin collects his jacket. "Take a shower, look nice and clean - shave that face, for the love of God, you were _not_ born to have a beard - and get your ass out there." Before he leaves, Martin stops by the door, points two fingers to his own eyes and then to Daniel's. "I better see you tomorrow, Agger. Or else."

 

x-x-x

 

It's a nice Italian restaurant by the Docks. "New place", Stevie said. "Thought we might try it out." 

"Why are you asking _me_ out?" Finns replied then, suspiciously. "Isn't that why you have a husband?"

"It's been ages since we last did anything together." Four months, to be more exact. There are only two places Finns ever goes to right now: it's either home or work. No mid-terms at all. Not pit-stops anywhere. Stevie has no idea how he manages and the only reason why he hasn't staged an intervention yet is because while he does look tired all the time, Finns has also been in a good mood, generally speaking. Stevie takes it as a good sign, because frankly it's all he's got to hope for.

It's hard to know whether he should be worried that Finns might be going crazy or glad that he's at least, apparently, happy about it. Stevie has been threading that dreadful fine line between being a good friend and the most negligent friend ever. He could be either seeing too much or letting something really important pass him by right under his nose. Not knowing is the worst part, and also the theme of his life lately, when it comes to Finns. He doesn't know anything, anymore.

Finns has become this unreadable puzzle; he smiles, laughs, jokes, introduces a comment here and there, but doesn't really say anything substantial, doesn't really share anymore. Obviously he's allowed to have a little mystery, but this is driving Stevie nuts. This constant feeling of being left out of something is just maddening.

"It's Friday night, Stevie," Finns pointed out, not even moving his eyes away from the computer, a light frown on his forehead indicating he was trying to focus on something that may or may not have been important. Stevie couldn't care less.

"And?"

"People usually enjoy Friday nights with their loved ones."

"You're a loved one."

"The loved ones they get to fuck. That's what's supposed to happen tonight. Sex."

"Every night is Xabi night, Stephen," he stressed out his name, which, in their private communication language, is a code for _I'm dead serious_. It finally prompted _Stephen_ to dignify his presence with a look. "Can we please have our night tonight?"

Finns stopped, considered Stevie for a long moment, and then sighed in surrender. Stevie pulled him out of his office before he could give it a second thought.

"Why don't you invite Xabi over?" Finns asks while they're quietly reading the menu. Well, actually - Finns is reading the menu, pointedly not looking at Stevie but making it seem all very casual. Stevie is watching Finns.

"He knows we're here."

"Isn't he coming?"

"Why would he?"

Finns's eyes flicker up at him for a moment. "He could, if he wanted to. I haven't seen him in a while."

"You can see him whenever you want," Stevie says, and waits for Finns to take the bait and start talking about how he hasn't been feeling very sociable lately and why.

Finns doesn't, though. He's a much harder fish to catch than that. "I guess," he shrugs. "Just thought he might like to join you for dinner tonight."

"This is _our_ night, Stephen. Just you and me, like the old times."

"Are you purposefully leaving your husband out?" And it sounds too much like an accusation to Stevie's ears, even though the tone on Finns' voice is still just light-hearted and offhanded. 

"No, just - I figured we should spend some time together, 's all," he retorts, slightly more defensively than strictly necessary. "You're absent, Finns."

Finns frowns, but doesn't look up. "No, I'm not. You see me every day."

"Yes, but we don't really talk anymore, do we?"

"That's nonsense. We're talking right now."

"About nothing. We're talking about nothing."

"I'm just following the conversation here. If you want to talk about something else, change the subject."

Stevie grunts in frustration, leans over the table and pulls the menu away from Finns, who stares at him a little stunned. "I haven't chosen yet," he says, after a beat.

"I don't know why you even bother with the menu. You always end up having the same thing."

"Doesn't mean I don't give it a thought first. In my heart, I like to know I have options." Stevie stares, Finns waits. "Will you give me that back?"

"No."

"Fine." Finns looks away, searching for the waiter, trying to pretend like he isn't annoyed by what Stevie just did.

"Let's talk about you then," Stevie suggests. "How are you, Finns?"

Finns eyes him awkwardly, like he's just made a really stupid or really crazy question. "Fine," he answers. "You?"

"No, we're talking about you. Care to develop?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't know what's going on with you - in your life, I mean. I know you wake up and go to work every morning, but that's all. We never go out for drinks anymore, you don't show up for dinner, you never come to hang out with me and Xabi, you never have news to share -"

"Because there are no news to share."

" - and we both know that's bullshit, right? It doesn't have to be anything great. You could tell me about how you bought your 100th new pair of Italian shoes -"

"I haven't bought new shoes."

" - or about what you had for breakfast -"

"I hardly ever have breakfast. Just coffee. And you know that, so why would I tell you?" 

" -or _anything at all_ ," Stevie says, trying very hard not to throw a bread roll at Finns. "It can be stupid, it doesn't matter, I won't judge. I just want you to tell me _stuff_ and I want to know that you're really ok, because right now I'm not so sure, and maybe I should know, because I'm your best friend, but I don't, and that's fucking doing my head in."

There's a moment's silence in which Finns regards Stevie studiously before sighing. "Do you really want to know why I can't hang out with you and Xabi anymore?"

"Yes."

"All right." Finns seems to brace himself for a big revelation; Stevie tightens his grip on his own knees nervously in apprehension. "That would be because the two of you can't keep your hands away from each other for two bloody seconds. You're either touching, or kissing, or touching _and_ kissing."

Stevie frowns. "No, we're not."

"Yes, you are. All the fucking time. And I'm really happy for you, I just can't really be playing the third wheel. Not right now, anyway."

And that's - Stevie doesn't know what to say. He's not sure why, but he starts to feel guilty. He and Xabi are ridiculously happy - not every day, not all the time, they have their issues as well - and perhaps he should've been a little more sensitive about the fact that Finns' love life is still a bit in shatters since Daniel. He should've known that flaunting his happiness about would be disrespectful towards someone who's probably still working on amending a broken heart, a bit like rubbing it on his face.

"Finns, I... I'm sorry. I had no idea you felt that way," he says, earnestly. "If I knew it was hard for you to see Xabi and me together, I wouldn't have - well, we would've been more careful."

"It's not hard for me to see the two of you _together_ , Stevie," Finns answers. "It's hard me to be in the middle of all that sexual chemistry."

"... what?" Stevie frowns. "Why?"

"Because I'm _horny_ , Stevie," Finns says, leaning over the table and hissing the key-word out from behind greeted teeth to make sure nobody listens to him - and also maybe like he's incredibly embarrassed to be saying it out loud. "Satisfied? That's why I haven't spent time with you, it's why I've been focusing all my energy - and that's a lot of fucking energy, trust me - into work - because I'm _horny_ half the time, and the other half I'm fucked up. Sometimes I'm both, which is not pleasant at all. I can't be around you and Xabi and all those well-shagged hormones, because it makes me angry _and_ hornier than I already am, so there." Finns turns his face away from Stevie, pointedly not looking at him and possibly trying very hard not to blush.

Stevie is - stunned. Wide-eyed in surprise because that was not at all what he was expecting. He thought he would be hearing about depression and heartache and sadness and all those profound illnesses of the soul - not about libido.

"Well, that's -" Stevie says. "Interesting," he completes after a heartbeat. "It's not as bad as I thought, then."

"Oh, trust me. It's _pretty_ bad. I'm getting to that phase where I start imagining things, you know? Everything is provocative and that's - not good at all. I had a minor crisis yesterday watching Suso eating a banana."

Stevie arches him an eyebrow. "Suso, the intern?" Finns nods his head sheepishly. "Jesus, Finns. That kid's what, 17?"

"He's 21. Perfectly legal. I checked."

"Oh my God!" Stevie gapes. "You are seriously considering doing Suso, the intern?!"

"Of course I'm not considering doing the intern, Steven. I just had to check that I wasn't... Committing a crime, in my head."

"If things are so bad, shouldn't you be going out more? Mingling? There are plenty of men in Liverpool who would be more than willing to go out on a date with you - plenty of men who are _not_ Suso, the intern, you sick, sick man."

"I'm not doing the intern. And it's not that simple, either. You think I haven't thought about it?"

"If you've thought about it, then why didn't you just bloody do it? Liverpool has hundreds of gay bars. You don't even have to choose, just close your eyes and point a finger."

"It's not like that, Stevie," Finns says, shifting a little in his place as his eyes nervously wander away from his friend's questioning gaze again.

"Do you want me to come with you? 'Cause I can. We'll go hunting together like we used to back in college."

The look Finns gives him right then makes Stevie feel like he just murdered a puppy. "Are you on crack? Not in a fucking million years I'm going _hunting_ with you again, God save me. I'd be interested in what Xabi would think about this brilliant idea of yours."

Stevie shrugs nonchalantly. "He wouldn't mind. It's just to help out a friend. He knows I wouldn't be doing anything, just flirting a bit. There's nothing wrong with that."

"There's _everything_ wrong with that. Not to mention it would be ridiculously awkward to watch you flirting with someone else. Dear God, no."

"Fine, not me, then. There's nothing stopping you from going on your own, though."

"It's not that simple, Stevie," Finns repeats, still looking a lot more uncomfortable than Stevie thinks the situation demands, which sends all sorts of alarms going off in his head. "Can we talk about something else now? I think I'm ready to order."

Stevie squints his eyes thoughtfully at his friend, prompting Finns to roll his eyes in a weary manner. "I can't figure out what's wrong with you and that's bothering the hell out of me," Stevie says, pensively.

"Oh, Jesus Christ... Remind me again why I'm friends with you?"

"It can't be good that I can't tell," Stevie continues, completely ignoring Finns. "You're obviously hiding something and that can't be good. I've been worried about you for months and you just seem to, like - shrink back into your shell, a little bit more each day, and that's _definitely_ not good," he muses, mostly talking to himself.

Finns stops, purses his lips and looks to be genuinely touched by Stevie's inner struggle - or he simply goes too bored and sick of the questioning, which, thinking of it, sounds more like Finns than getting moved by whatever. Either way, his shoulders drop as he leans back against his chair, drawing the air in deeply. "I really wish I didn't have to talk about this..." he starts, shaking his head a little.

"So there _is_ something?!" Stevie says, a little more emphatically than he intended to. Finns raises a finger to his lips, shushing his friend.

"Yes, Steven, there is," he continues. "I've been having... _issues_." Finns pauses, looks to one side, then the other, making sure nobody's eavesdropping - of course nobody is, they're just two guys wearing suits and having dinner; to everyone around them they're probably talking some business boring bollocks, so of course there's no one staring and no one listening, but Finns is just uneasy, has been for most of the night, or at least when he wasn't looking just utterly detached, and Steven's starting to worry about that too, doesn't know which is worse - detached Finns or uneasy Finns. Why the fuck can't he just get _Finns_ Finns? 

"What kind of issues?"

He swallows. "Physical issues."

"Are you sick?"

"Not exactly."

Stevie blinks at him, utterly confused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I - I have some _problems_. Not exactly... health issues. Just... Some functions are not exactly... _functioning_."

Stevie frowns. "That doesn't make any sense, Finns."

"For fuck's sake, Gerrard," Finns groans. "Do you want me to fucking draw?"

"Well, yes. Actually. Yes. I have no fucking idea what you're talking about. What _functions_ are not _functioning_? What, is it your heart? Or your bowels? Do you have, like, gastroenteritis or some shit?"

" _It's my dick, Stevie_ ," Finns hisses. "My dick is not fucking functioning."

Now that - _that_ is something he was definitely not expecting. And _way_ worse than gastroenteritis. "Your... what?"

Finns opens his arms in the air in 'See what I mean?' way. "I can't get it up."

Stevie stares at him, completely dumbfounded, for long seconds. When he finally speaks, what he says is, "Shit."

Finns half smiles at him. "That seems to be the word to sum it up."

"But. Like. Fuck, Finns," Stevie scratches the back of his head. "Have you seen a doctor about it?"

"Only a dozen of them."

"And?"

"They say there's nothing wrong with me, from a physical point of view. Everything's in order. Or it seems to be, anyway. They all said I should seek therapy."

"And have you?"

"I can't see a therapist about this."

"Why not?"

"Because, Stevie, it's embarrassing. Just the thought of sitting on a chair and talking to someone I've never met about all this freaks me out. It's not going to help, it's going to make it worse."

"When did it start?" Finns just gives him a pointed look, cocks him an eyebrow. "Oh." Stevie does a quick math - almost four months since Finns left the hospital. Which means it's not just proper sex he hasn't had in three and a half months - not even a little wank's happened in all that time. Jesus Christ. Stevie wants to stand up and give Finns a hug right then, because hell. That can't be easy. Now he can understand why his friend is so detached. Rightfully so. How the hell he managed to keep a good mood during all this time is beyond Stevie - if it was him, he would've kicked every single arse in front of him from here to fucking Dublin already. 

"But you said you feel horny all the time," Stevie continues. "How can you get turned on if you can't get... _turned on_?"

"I get turned on in my head. But then the message gets lost somewhere between my brain and the lower part of my body. It just gives me a fucking headache."

"Jesus, that must be worse than having a boner all the time," Stevie says, and only then realizes it was out loud. "Sorry."

"You don't say."

"But when you - you know, when you... Do the things... With you hand... It just doesn't work?" Finns just shakes his head at him. "Have you tried it with anyone else?"

"Oh, sure. 'Cause I'm looking forward to humiliating myself in front of another person."

"You won't know if that's the case if you don't try."

"How can I even think about bedding someone? I wouldn’t focus for one second. I would just keep thinking _shit-shit-shit-shit-shit_ and getting nervous and awkward and it would be terrible, not to mention that with this level of stress, things would definitely not work. It can't be like that."

"Hire someone."

"What?"

"Pay a hooker to get you off. He wouldn't be able to say shit if it goes wrong and if it does - well, it's a hooker, not someone you're trying to impress."

Finns watches him studiously for a second. "I could say a million things about that, but I'm not even going to dignify that stupid idea with a proper answer."

Stevie rolls his eyes at the other man. So maybe paying hookers isn't the most honorable thing for a man to do, but desperate times require desperate measures, right? "Have you tried Sergio then?"

Finns just stares at him blankly for a heartbeat. "Is he a therapist?"

"No. He's just... Hot. Like, really hot. Allegedly."

"... and?"

Stevie shrugs. "And I don't know. Maybe if you go out with someone who's _really_ hot then you'll get turned on."

Finns lets out a little laugh, shakes his head at Stevie. "This is the stupidest idea I have ever heard."

"At least you'd be trying _something_. You can't go on like that forever. I'd be going up the walls already if I were you."

"Let's just say I've been exercising my self-control a lot lately," Finns says. "I'll do something about it, just not bloody Sergio. Not him and not a hooker and not anybody from around here."

"What do you mean, not from around here?"

Finns shrugs. "I feel I've already seen every gay guy in Liverpool. Like there's no one out there who's going to bring anything new to my life, it's just going to be the same thing over and over again. Same places, same faces... I don't wanna be doing that again."

"That's not true, Stephen," Stevie says, softly.

"I know, but it's how I feel." Stevie feels a bit of a pang somewhere. It's hard to see that Finns has grown so disenchanted with life after Daniel. That son of a bitch really did screw him up good. Theirs was the king of traumatic break-ups; it does seem a bit too naive of him to have expected that Finns would rise from it unscathed. Obviously, he's not. It's going to take something really special to get him out of that and, up until that moment, Stevie's greatest fear was that Finns might become one of those crazy Mercy queens who jump from one relationship to another to another to another - never really allowing themselves to settle down or even properly meet anyone out of sheer fear of having their hearts broken. 

Now, though, he feels he should be more worried Finns will never have another fuck in his life and will end up as a cat lady. It's way worse than the other option.

It's so unfair that Stephen has to go through all this. It'll obviously not doing his already dented self-esteem any good. Finns hasn't got any idea how much of a catch he is; he acts like he's way bellow standards, like no one's ever gonna be attracted to him right from the start or that he won't ever be the one who turns heads as soon as he walks into a room. And maybe, personality-wise, he isn't; he's quiet, reserved, calm, not expansive and loud and all over the place, like Sergio. But he has a million other qualities he doesn't even realize are there because he simply won't let it show, and now, apparently, he isn't even willing to let people find out for themselves.

Stevie's no therapist, but he can assume that Finns' _issue_ has everything to do with his insecurity. And that - well, what is Stevie going to say about it? There's really nothing he can say he hasn't already said a million times. Obviously his opinion is not going to make a difference anymore. Somebody else has to make him feel that way so that he will start believing it again.

That _somebody_ used to be that dickhead - but then he had to go and leave Finns for a younger lad, didn't he? Motherfucking arsehole.

"Anyway, I'm thinking about going to London," Finns continues after a beat, trying to sound more cheerful. "Get some time off and just spend a few weeks down there."

"London?" Stevie's face crumples up in a grimace. "Why London?"

"It's a big city," Finns shrugs. "Lots of people, lots of places. I have family there. It's been years since I last spent more than a couple of days."

"You have to be depressive if you want to spend your entire vacations in London. I'd be dead before the first week was over."

Finns stops, bites his lips thoughtfully, and then, "Barcelona, then."

"Barcelona," Stevie repeats in that patronizing tone that says he thinks it's a stupid idea.

"I've always wanted to go to Barcelona. It's warm, they have beaches. Food's great too. Xabi could give me some tips, maybe."

"Xabi's from the other separatist side of Spain."

"San Francisco!" Stephen blasts, widening his eyes and smiling like he's got a lamp bulb sparkling above his head. "That's brilliant, actually. How come I never thought of San Francisco before?"

"Well, clearly you've put a lot of thought into this. It's not like you've changed your mind three times in 50 seconds. Bloody San Francisco, seriously?"

"Gay capital of the world, Stevie."

"And?"

"I need to have sex."

"With _Americans_? Don't you think that's a little too desperate?"

"What's wrong with Americans?"

"Soccer is wrong with Americans."

"Well, it's my vacations, not yours."

"I don't think you should do that, Finns."

"Why not?"

"Because you want to cross the fucking country, the continent and the bloody Atlantic just to meet new people. That's wonderful when you're 18, just finished high school and spends most of your time drunk. I went backpacking when I graduated, it was brilliant. I don't remember half of it. But I would never do that again. It's crazy."

"First of all, I won't be _backpacking_. I'll take a suitcase, nice clothes, it'll be just one city and I'll be staying at a glorious hotel, with a big queen size bed where I can get myself exorcized from all this unwanted celibacy. I swear to God my virginity is growing back."

Stevie considers commenting on the second part, but decides not to. He's pretty open about sex with Finns because, well, doesn't really make a lot of sense not to be. Finns thinks there's an etiquette for how much you should talk about sex with an ex, but Stevie figures they know pretty much everything there is to know about one another in bed, so they should use it to their own advantage, and not hide in shame. Right now, though, Finns is probably expecting him to say something so that they can take a detour and change the subject. That man is nothing if not a strategist; it takes years of practice to learn how to read Finns' subtlety.

"You're not a party animal, Finns," he continues. "You won't be stuffing your face with hallucinogens and having crazy sex and fucking _orgies_ with hundreds of guys and then coming back home like you've had the time of your life."

"How do you know I won't be doing that?"

"Because that's not _you_. You're gonna go to a quiet bar where posh and interesting men go to meet other posh and interesting men, and then you _will_ meet some posh and interesting man who'll buy you dinner and have mind-blowing sex with you -"

"Is this supposed to dissuade me from going? 'Cause I think you're doing it wrong."

"- and then _what_? Your time there will be over and you'll have to come back, but Posh Interesting Man will stay and then you'll be sulking for having met the perfect guy and being one ocean away from him. Or _worse_."

Finns smiles at Stevie. "Amuse me, Steven. What could be worse than the apocalypse you just narrated?"

"You having stupid ideas about moving to the US to be with Posh Interesting Man. And let me just make it very clear to you right now - _you are not doing that_. I will not let you move out of Liverpool - not to London, not to Barcelona and not to bloody America, so don't even start."

Finns throws his head back as he erupts into merry-eyed laughter, so loud and unrestrained that people from the other tables turn their heads to see what's happening. Stevie doesn't join in because he's somewhat mad at Finns and because he's not entirely sure what Finns is having a laugh at, but it does warm his heart a little to see his friend looking so genuinely happy again, even if just for a couple of seconds. He's missed Finns' laughter so much.

"Oh, Stevie," he finally says, tenderly, in-between short bursts of laughter that slowly morph into a chuckle as he manages to reign himself in.

"What's so funny?"

" _You_ are." Finns inhales deeply, a big toothy smile still spread on his face. "Do you realize you just forbade me from falling in love with an American and then deciding to move to the other side of the Atlantic before I even decided to go there for sure? I'm here just counting possibilities and thinking about what I'd like to do with my days off work and you make up this whole story in your head - _and you get mad at me for it_." Another wave of laughter, lighter this time, breaks through. "You are seriously damaged, Stevie. You should see a doctor or something."

"Ha ha," he says, making a great effort not to smile back at Finns because it does sound ridiculous when he puts it like that, doesn't it? "I'm just issuing a warning beforehand."

"All right, then. I'll keep that in mind."

"You better."

"I love my job too much to leave."

"I'm glad to hear I mean less to you than your job."

"I'm very well paid, you know."

"Good for you."

They both stop talking and just stare at one another for long few seconds before neither of them can resist playing hard anymore. They smile at each other at the same time; Finns' is so wide it looks like his face might split in two. Stevie can't even count all the little crinkles on the corner of his friend's eyes, but suddenly it's like they're back at their twenty-somethings and remembering all the reasons why they were drawn to one another in the first place. It's magnetic, it is. And simply inevitable.

"Just what exactly would I do without you, Steven?" Finns asks, shaking his head in a completely helpless manner.

Stevie hears the _I love you, you knobhead_ intended there. Finns is the sort of guy who doesn't say it all the time, doesn't say it unless he really, really means it, so you have to appreciate the moments when he does tell you, and also learn how to hear it between the lines when he doesn't.

They're not quite there yet, back to normal, that is. Finns is still horny, and probably more upset than he'll care to admit, and the two of them plus Xabi are still not back to being the inseparable trio that they are supposed to be, not to mention Daniel is still an entirely different kind of dark cloud lurking above their heads, but it will go away. Stevie knows it will. They'll be fine.

They'll be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important to say that I started writing this story - and finished it - almost two years before Stevie decided to move to the US. I sure as hell could've never seen him living in LA back then (still can't).


	20. I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one before the finale. It's slightly longer than the last one and I think it points towards where things are going. I hope you guys like it. Please forgive me for all the mistakes, you know there will be loads of it. :/
> 
> Feedback is always much welcome. :)

Later, Daniel is going to wonder just how the fuck he didn't realize he was being played.

The thing is, if Daniel wasn't just so fucking discouraged about everything, he would've probably stopped to give it a proper thought and ask himself just why exactly Martin was so bloody insistent that he had to help out at Mercy. Like that would help him out of his misery, anyway. He should've known there was a catch. There's always a catch with Martin. He's the cleverest fucker in the worst possible way to have ever walked this earth. Well, maybe not the earth, but certainly the streets of Liverpool. Daniel's known him for long enough that he should've seen there was something behind his threatening resolve; he should've been able to read between the fucking glaring lines. Martin is the king of obvious. The guy was practically screaming at him that _he had a plan_ and Daniel simply didn't hear it.

He didn't, because he couldn't get arsed enough to give anything a proper thought. All he heard while Martin was talking was " _blah blah blah_ I'll make your life hell if you don't do what I say _blah blah blah_ I'm the fucking spawn of Satan, so don't think it can't get any worse than it already is _blah blah blah_."

When he shows up at the club at 11 am sharp - practically still night for Daniel these days - the one thing he's thinking about is: the quickest way to convince Martin that he's being productive and helpful and upbeat. The sooner he figures that out, the sooner he'll get the fuck out of there and go back to the land of melancholy, the place where sunshine and happiness can't reach. Daniel's apartment reminds him an awful lot of that dark area in the Lion King where the hyenas used to live - _everything the sun touches is our land, Simba, just don't get your fucking ass to that dark, putrid area around the corner, you little mouse; you have enough land as it is, don't go cocking everything up_. 

There should be more Mufasas in the world, he thinks - metaphorically, of course. If someone had given that same advice to Fernando and Steve their lives could've been made a lot better.

But anyway. Up 'till that point, Daniel's being optimistic - which is a hell of a lot of improvement, if you ask him. Either optimistic or simply naive (which is euphemism for stupid). He actually believes he can trick Martin into being happy with his performance. Little does he know.

Martin and Sergio are unsurprisingly side by side when he arrives. He's heard about it, but he'd never seen it himself, so it's a bit of a shock at first, how much intimacy radiates from the two of them. Intimacy being the key word here; he didn't even think Martin knew how to be intimate to anyone except in a very passive-aggressive sort of way. The way he is with Sergio is almost... Natural. Like they actually really do get along well, as in a normal human being sort of way.

Daniel stops at a distance to admire the scene because this - this is like staring at some really old, really rare portrait. It should be savored slow and comprehensively. There's a lot going on there. And God - God's in the details, they say. The fact even Martin Skrtel can be made victim of _amore_ proves that there must be a God somewhere out there indeed. 

They are shoulders touching, heads hanging low, way too close for it to be just _business_ , discussing something brightly. Martin laughs at something Sergio says - _laughs_ , like real throwing-his-head-back-eyes-sparkling laughter, not just his mean-bitch impersonation crap - and the Spaniard takes advantage of the momentary distraction to place a very casual yet somehow still very calculated hand on the small of Martin's back. That makes Daniel smile, actually, because it shows that Sergio _knows_ who he's dealing with - which goes to confirm that they have been hanging out way too much lately. Sergio knows that if he tries an abrupt approach or if he just goes for it and wraps an arm around Martin, the Slovakian is just gonna run for his life. It's like watching an Animal Planet show where someone tries to get close to Bambi. _And now the hunter approaches the baby deer with slow, careful movements, one step at a time, veeeeery meticulously, as the baby deer smells the air; his fur is all standing on end and he is flinching back as a sense of danger invades him. The hunter must be extra mindful now, or the deer is gonna dart forward and it will be bye bye Bambi._

Bambi doesn't seem to mind the touch, though; if anything, he moves even closer to Sergio.

Daniel knows his head is way too messed up for him to realize just how important this moment really is. It is loaded with the weight of a million different things, but Dan - he can't really grasp his mind around it. But even with the heavy cloud fogging his thoughts, he knows this is worth holding on to. It's Martin acting like a person, Martin caring about something more than just because he wants to fuck it. This is unique. One day, he'll either feel very proud he was here to witness this moment or at the very least have enough blackmail material to get Martin off his back for an entire century.

As soon as Daniel announces his arrival, the two love birds pull away from each other like they were hit by a lightning bolt. Daniel smirks and watches with joy as the Slovakian gazes away from him, visibly embarrassed - now there is something definitely worth leaving the apartment for, he thinks. If he didn't know any better, he'd say there's a light shade of pink coloring Martin's cheeks. He wishes he could take a picture of this for posterity.

Sergio sends him to get light bulbs in the store room - _You know the store room right?_ he asks with a smirk; every habitué of Mercy knows the store room, of course. Daniel has fucked more people in there than he has had friends in his life. He can still find his way around brain dead if he has to.

All around Mercy there are queens that Daniel has seen billions of times - some of which he has made out with and/or shagged at various occasions. These are very resourceful men indeed; they're doing everything, from cleaning to electrical maintenance. Martin's involved with the decor, of course, but Daniel gets the feeling that he and Sergio are really the ones coordinating the whole team. The idea of Martin being one half of the most influential _couple_ in Liverpool's gay society both amuses and scares Daniel. That man is way too power-thirst to make giving him any sort of actual social status something reasonable. He is already one of the most recognized faces amongst gay guys in Merseyside - not always for good reasons - and so is Ramos, who's been the resident DJ at the hottest club in town for years. They would be like the Megazord of the queens. Or, more likely, some sort of _gaydzilla_. 

_Interesting_ would be a slightly loose-description for what that power couple could become.

Still, it can't be taken away from them that it is very nice what they're doing to the club. Mercy actually belongs to a man named Jamie Redknapp, some rich guy who was the _it_ queen in Merseyside during the nineties. That was when he opened Mercy. His dream was to have a place where every gay man in the area could go to be absolutely free from all the ties that bind and society's judgmental stares - no restrictions whatsoever. Everything is allowed. It was a haven in the middle of a city that still held a lot of prejudice due to its industrial inheritance and subsequent macho culture. That has changed over the years and Liverpool is now very welcoming to gay people in general, at least in comparison to most places. Daniel's never felt threatened or unwelcome anywhere, and he's been to quite a few fancy places with Steve, restaurants and bars and parties attended by the most conservative and wealthy families of the Merseyside area. Steve himself works at an office full of strictly straight guys and he's never been disrespected in any ways for being openly gay. His bosses love him to death (for a long time there Daniel was of the opinion that they really _fancied_ Steve). Still, a lot of that change in heart is probably owed to places like Mercy and the active voice it gave to the gay community in the city.

The oldest people there say Redknapp used to show up every night back in the day. He was the heart of the party - had a group of close friends who had a bad taste for suits and tags: they used to call themselves 'The Spice Boys'. First ones to arrive, last ones to leave - always with two or three more boys on each side. Martin idolizes the myth, not by chance. Redknapp looks incredibly hot from the pictures Daniel's seen - and he's still only 40 now, so probably still hot - but Dan never really set eyes on the man himself. He moved to London in the early 2000s and never came back, has other bigger businesses there now. Probably found someone to settle down with as well. That's really the one thing that changes a gay partyman's life, and Dan's living proof of that.

Impressively enough, Martin might end up following the footsteps of his idol a lot more closely than he could've ever anticipated and turning into the strongest example in history of the healing powers of love if he and Sergio continue down that road. 

Mercy has come close to shutting down several times over the years, but the unshakable support of the community remains stronger than anything else, and so it has been rescued back into business every single time. Daniel respects that, really. He's not the flag-raiser for gay rights that some of his friends are; all he wants is to live his life and have no one bothering him. But he finds it admirable that these guys aren't about to let anybody step over them and make them feel like they don't belong. They've made a home for themselves here and nobody is kicking them out.

The store room is nothing like he remembers. Surely there used to be a lot more space for casual sex to happen. Now it's just piles and piles of boxes. There's barely any room for Dan to walk around with his long legs, much less to hump someone - it doesn't occur to him how odd it is that he measures the amount of space available by whether he can or cannot fuck someone comfortably in a given room. 

Clearly they have thrown everything they couldn't fit elsewhere into that room while doing the renovations. You'd think gay men would be more organized than that. Daniel wonders briefly how anyone will ever find anything in here - like fucking light bulbs - before he starts searching.

It takes some good thirty minutes for him to find the right box. When he does, he kicks the door shut and looks around for Sergio. He finds the Spaniard talking to some guys on the far corner of the club - Martin's favorite place for a quick blow-job, if he remembers well, once the lights go out.

"Hey, Sergio," he says, balancing the box in one hand while he stretches out the other to touch the man's shoulder. "Your store room is a fucking mess, but I found your stupid ligh -"

The moment Sergio turns around, Dan's voice disappears completely. It's not Sergio. It's someone with a short brown hair that doesn't really resembles Sergio's at all from up-close, only wearing the same combination of white T-shirt and jeans and roughly the same height as him. But with a hell of a lot more freckles all over his face.

And this, right here, is the moment Daniel should've anticipated. 

Suddenly, Fernando's standing right there. His eyes are wide and he seems genuinely surprised to see Daniel; not repulsed or angry about it. Just surprised. And the first thing that occurs to Daniel is how the fuck didn't he recognize Fernando?

The second thing is panic. A sense of despair takes over his body as his heart starts beating like a fucking helicopter trying to take off. _Fuck this shit, I'm leaving_ , is what his heart is saying right now. His head, on the other hand, is just screaming a bunch of stuff he can't even understand. All that _I'm fine, I'm working, I'm contributing_ façade he built with so much dexterity goes tumbling down in a second.

Daniel isn't ready for this. He's didn't prepare himself to see Fernando. His stupid instincts are starting to kick in and Daniel wants to drop down and dig a hole to hide himself in right there, because this is just too fucking much. Meeting Fernando again demands many psychological arrangements he hasn't made. 

Fuck, he misses Fernando. Just so fucking much it actually physically hurts. There's a pain in his chest as though his heart has expanded and become too large to fit behind his ribcage and Daniel is not entirely sure he's managing to keep all those things from becoming crystal clear all over his face.

"Daniel," Fernando says after a beat. The melodic sound of his voice striking every cord inside of Dan. The way he says his name - in that beautiful accent, emphasizing the last syllable instead of the first like the English do... Jesus... "Hi! I didn't know you were here."

"Uhn..." is the first sound Dan's able to produce, his hands shaking like hell. "Yeah. I'm here," he says, reciprocating the nice greetings half-heartedly. "And so are you." King of obvious.

Fernando smiles - actually _smiles_ at him - and Daniel doesn't fucking know what to do. He's possessed by a fervent desire to evaporate, because Jesus fucking Christ, the effect that man has in him is still too great for him to handle.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone else," he says, instead.

"That's been happening a lot," Fernando replies, raising one hand to touch his hair, like he's not used to it yet himself. 

They lapse back into silence and Daniel thinks maybe Fernando is waiting for him to make some sort of comment about his hair. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Say something. _Oh, it looks nice_ , or _How do you feel being a brunette? _or _something_. But Daniel's brain is not exactly functional right now, so he doesn't say anything and neither does Fernando and the silence becomes strained and awkward and heavy with all the words hanging above their heads that neither of them is saying. And there are just so many...__

__"So how are you?" Fernando asks after a moment, stuffing his hands in his pockets as though he's not entirely sure what to do with them. Daniel's suddenly grateful that he's holding a large box, so he doesn't have to worry about his own and can use it to hide his face a little. This box is his shield._ _

__"Brilliant," he says, without thinking. And then he realizes that this is neither true nor appropriate. He doesn't want Fernando to think that he's doing _brilliantly_ , that he doesn't give a shit about him anymore. Dan's suffering, sulking, awfully heartbroken. He feels terrible 24 hours a day, and although pity is definitely not something he wants from the other man, he would also hate for Fernando to believe he has moved on already. "I'm... ok," he corrects himself, not without sounding like an idiot, mind you, but that's probably something Fernando has been well aware of for a long time. _ _

__"That's good," Fernando says, smiling amiably. He's trying to be civilized, Daniel thinks. Fernando is so superior that even though he made it clear he never wanted to see his sorry ass ever again, he's acting like it's no big deal._ _

__If anything, that shatters the Dane's heart a tad bit further._ _

__"How about you?" Dan asks._ _

__"I'm good too," he says, nodding. "Just... Moving along, you know?"_ _

__"Yeah," Dan says, although he doesn't know, not really. "Me too."_ _

__"So... You were looking for Sergio?"_ _

__"Ah. Yeah." Daniel nods towards the box in his hands. "I need to get this to him."_ _

__"I think he's at the bar."_ _

__"Right. Yeah. I should probably get this to him."_ _

__"Ok."_ _

__Daniel bites his lip for a second, and then, "It was really good seeing you, Fernando."_ _

__"You too, Dan." _Dan_. It's like he's doing it just to drive the blade in._ _

__Daniel turns away from the Most Awkward Conversation Ever and rushes away from Fernando almost tripping over his own feet. He doesn't go over to the bar, where Fernando said he should find Sergio; he goes straight back to the store room, slams the door shut and drops the box on the floor._ _

__" _Damn it_!" Daniel screams to the room, so angry that he doesn't have enough room to pace around. He starts kicking random boxes, not a care in the world about what he might be breaking._ _

__He should've known there was something, shouldn't he? It's not a coincidence that he and Fernando have been brought together. Martin doesn't do loose ends. This has obviously been carefully orchestrated. And how the fuck did he not realize it? How did he not ask himself, not for one second, what could Martin possibly have in mind? It's just another one of his schemes - but precisely _what_ he means to achieve by this is completely beyond Daniel._ _

__And Fernando... Daniel's thought about this moment so many times in the past few months. He spent nights and nights awake, just fantasizing in his head what it would be like to see him again, every single detail of what their meeting would go like. The things he would say, how he would behave, how he would _feel_. Needless to say it all seemed so much better in his head. In the real thing, he got stuck inside, just standing there like a retarded, unable to form any sort of cohesive thought, much less say anything substantial. His hands were sweaty, his heart was about to stop and he was so nervous he could barely recognize himself. Fernando has this effect on him, he's had it from second number one; it's like Daniel's body simply liquefies in his presence, turns into this unimpressive mass of flesh and bones and nerves that doesn't add up to anything._ _

__Daniel basically wasted the first - probably the _only_ as well - opportunity he'll ever get to be around Fernando again. Not that he still thinks Fernando will forgive him or that there's still a chance for them. The Spaniard never answered any of his messages or e-mails, never picked up the phone when he called, probably never even listened to any of the voice mails, just erased everything like he's clearly erased Daniel from his life. Why wouldn't he? Daniel's trouble. He probably heard that from Xabi and Sergio, realized it would be just a matter of time until the next fuck-up came trotting up to him, decided not to bother. But still - Daniel should've _said_ something. Apologized or whatever. Just fucking told him how much he misses him, for God's sake. Anything._ _

__And - he completely changed his hair, didn't he? Daniel didn't even stop to think about it at the moment. Fernando looked so... Grown up. The new hair, darker and shorter, gave him an air of adulthood; he looked more _serious_. Less like a boy and more like a man. The chocolate-brown shade brings out his eyes and the freckles on his face. It suits him in a way that the long, blond hair didn't, even though Daniel had no complaints whatsoever about his yellow hair. It's just this new look, it's... fresher. Almost like Fernando isn't trying too hard anymore, as though he wants people to see him for just who he is._ _

__And what he is, is abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous._ _

__"Daniel!" Martin interrupts his musings, sticking his bald head in before swinging the store door open. "What the fuck are you still doing here? Sergio sent you to get light bulbs a million years ago."_ _

__Dan narrows his eyes to slits at Martin, his blood boiling inside his veins. "You son of a bitch," he murmurs, menacingly._ _

__Martin looks at him like he's crazy. "What?"_ _

__"Why didn't you tell me?"_ _

__"Tell you what?"_ _

__"That he would be here!"_ _

__"He? Who the fuck is _he_? There are a million hes in here." Daniel glares, and slowly Martin stops pretending he doesn't know what's going on. The fucker. "Ah," he says, a lewd curve on the corner of his lips. "You mean Blondie. Or ex-Blondie. Damn, I'm gonna have to stop calling him Blondie, won't I? Brownie just doesn't have the same ring to it."_ _

__"Martin," Dan admonishes, trying his best to keep his voice civil, but he cannot see that working for much longer._ _

__Martin rolls his eyes at him, then shrugs. "It slipped my mind."_ _

__" _Slipped_ your mind? All that fucking bullshit about how I had to get out of the house and it just fucking _slipped_ your mind to mention that the very _reason_ I'm the way I am is here? You seriously expect me to believe that?"_ _

__"Why wouldn't I tell you, Dagger?" Martin crosses his arms over his chest in a mix of boredom and defiance. "It didn't even occur to me that the two of you would meet. I've seen Fernando hanging around maybe twice, and not for long. There are 50 other people in here, how was I supposed to guess you can smell him like a fucking dog?"_ _

__"I'm sure your boyfriend mentioned something about him." Dan makes sure to emphasize the word _boyfriend_._ _

__The Slovakian's features contort into a grimace like he's getting rashes from the mere thought. Daniel smirks. "Sergio is not my boyfriend," Martin says flatly._ _

__"Bullshit, Martin. You spend every fucking day with him."_ _

__"Because we're working together."_ _

__"Yeah, and then after your shift at the club is over, you go and work on the renovations of his dick." Martin's eyes widen in shock, his mouth opens as though he's about to protest, but nothing comes out. Daniel grins again - not so angrily now; he's actually enjoying teasing Martin about this. "Are you surprised that I know?" he asks. "See how I _have_ been in touch with the bitch community?"_ _

__"He is not my boyfriend, what we do is none of your business and this conversation is not about me," the other man replies, sticking out his neck as though daring Daniel to continue._ _

__"The conversation is all about you. It's about how you're a fucking cunt! I can't believe you didn't think it was relevant to tell me Fernando would be here. You know very well he hates my guts and doesn't want to see me."_ _

__"Who said that?"_ _

__"He did."_ _

__"Just now? Did he actually say that to you?"_ _

__"... No," Daniel pouts a little. "But he never answered my calls."_ _

__"Ah, so we're _assuming_ that's how he feels about you."_ _

__"I'm assuming the obvious."_ _

__"I think depression has killed your brains, Dagger."_ _

__"I don't know where the fuck you're trying to get with this! You think coming here to see Fernando every day is gonna make me feel better? You honestly believe that being face to face with a reminder of what exactly I lost for being a dick is going to be any good for me? You're so fucking wrong you don't even know."_ _

__Martin watches him silently for a beat, worrying his lower lip with his teeth pensively. That's a new look on Martin, Dan thinks. Thoughtful. Probably something he's learned from spending time with Sergio._ _

__"I'm not trying to get anywhere," he starts. "You don't have to be around him if you don't want to. This place is huge, there are a million things to do. I honestly just thought it would be _something_ for you to distract yourself with, something you might be interested in because there are people walking around and talking and this is supposed to be a special place for you." _Yeah, because I met Fernando here._ "But you know what? Maybe it's a good thing that he's here. You should spend some time around him. This will force you to deal with that. So far, you've been pushing everything under the rug and look how that's working out for you. You're hiding from your friends and your life because you don't want to _move on_. You screwed up, Daniel, big fucking deal. Everybody does it. You lost Blondie - shit, _ex-Blondie_ \- and you lost your First Lady as well, ok, fine. You're allowed to mourn for a while. We get it. But it's been _months_. It's over, Danny. You gotta move on with your life now. Fernando has moved on, Bitchy has moved on, probably, and so should you. So get your shit together and go back outside with some dignity, for Christ's sake. Have some pride."_ _

__And, well... Fuck._ _

__It's Dan's turn to be speechless now. He's not used to hearing Martin make so much sense - and consequently being so much more annoying than usual. He's stunned, and instead of telling Martin to fuck off or to stay out of his life or calling him a cunt, Daniel resorts to silence._ _

__Those words are bound to make him ponder over his own situation and Fernando, maybe later today, maybe tomorrow; right now, though, Daniel's thinking about how much Martin's changed. He wants to say _Damn_ , and _What the fuck did Sergio do to you? Does he carry a magic wand between his legs?_ , but he doesn't because he knows that, even though he'd mean it as a compliment of sorts, it would sound like a terrible offense to Martin's ears. _ _

__He's exchanging public demonstrations of affection, however flimsy and innocent (and that's probably the weirdest part, actually), spending a lot of time with just one person, talking sense and sounding _mature_. He's worried that Daniel might be giving in to depression and sinking under the depths of sadness and not that he isn't getting as much sex as he should (he's probably concerned about that too, Martin being the greatest advocate for sex the world's ever seen, but to a considerably smaller extent; his priorities have changed). _ _

__Things really did move around a bit while he wasn't looking._ _

__"I'll take the bulbs to Sergio," he says, getting the box from the floor and inspecting to see whether they are still intact. He turns back to Daniel then, points a finger right at his face. "Who's _not_ my boyfriend, by the way. I don't care what bullshit Nicklas has said to you. That fucking Dane is a crackhead and you shouldn't listen to anything he says. Resume sulking, get it over with and get back to work, yeah? I'll see you outside."_ _

__With that, he turns around and leaves Daniel still pretty much dumbfounded and rooted to his spot._ _

__It's hard to tell what exactly is going to take longer to recover from: seeing Fernando again or getting a moral lesson from Martin._ _

__x-x-x_ _

__Finns ends up settling for Barcelona. It's a big city, with warm, sandy beaches, an incredible night life, delicious food, beautiful people, awesome atmosphere and also the only option that didn't get Stevie's knickers too much in a twist, which is definitely a plus. Every time Finns mentioned _San Francisco_ Stevie would throw a small tantrum that was obviously just a sneak-peak of the real storm ahead. The word _London_ just made his face crumple up in a disgusted grimace. _ _

__Finns had to remind Stevie that, although he is a very proud son of Ireland, he was actually raised in London, which makes him at least 50% Londoner - even his accent isn't as Irish as it should be - so, yeah, he does feel a little offended. Stevie just ignored that part and continued to pretend to vomit like a seven year-old refusing to eat his vegetables. Scousers, right?_ _

__Xabi actually made a good case for Marbella. "It's calm and quiet and the beaches are never overcrowded. You can lie down under the sun and not have another bother in your life. You might also catch some celebrities," he added, with a smile that was perhaps just a tiny bit too overexcited. "There are tons of them there."_ _

__It was tempting, really, but who is he kidding? Peace and quiet is not what he's looking for right now. He wants crowds and sweaty bodies pressed up one against the other, moving to the same rhythm. He wants heat and excitement and liveliness. He needs to have _sex_. Lots and lots of crazy, mind-blowing, fired up sex, not cute, mommy-and-daddy, pic-nic-on-the-beach kind of sex. That's not even going to give him a hard on._ _

__Barcelona it is, then._ _

__Stevie, however, wasn't about to let him leave without a final push. Finns bought his tickets, made hotel reservations and even booked a few tables at some of the best restaurants - for two, just in case. But Stevie insisted he should see a doctor about his _problem_ first._ _

__"You have to see this guy, Finns," he said, pushing a piece of paper into his hands and closing Finns' fingers around it as though he was handing him the philosopher's stone. "You know my mate Jamie, right? He had the same problem after he got a divorce. He said it took him two sessions to be completely cured. You _have_ to see his doctor."_ _

__Finns sighed, uncrumpled the paper. "That's an address," he said. "What's this doctor's name?"_ _

__"I forgot," Stevie said. "Doctor Karmel or Kirkwell, I don't know. Something like that. Sounded Irish. Maybe he's one of yours. Even better, right?" he smiled._ _

__There was no phone number Stephen could call either - "Jamie is in Dubai, he didn't have it with him, he just told me where the practice is. But I'm sure if you just show up they'll fit you in". Finns thanked his friend politely, but made no promises. In Stevie's head, if Finns gets some miracle treatment, that will somehow dissuade him from going to Spain. He's terrified, he is, and for no reason whatsoever. People go out on holiday all the bloody time. What's wrong with him going?_ _

__Finns spent a lot of time wondering what exactly he was doing to make Stevie so bloody insecure - is he giving signs that he's fed up with life in Liverpool? That he wants to move elsewhere and start over? Because that isn't the case at all. Well, not entirely, anyway. He might be a little fed up with Liverpool at the moment, but he's sure that's just a post-relationship failure phase. Finns just needs a little more time to get interested in the city again. Right now everywhere seems a little depressing - because he's been all over with Daniel, and all the places he used to go to and get dates before are also places he took Daniel to afterwards and now he can't go back there and not feel downcast - and frankly, he's downcast enough the way he is, with his _issues_ and everything. Stevie can't really blame him for being a bit disheartened at the moment._ _

__But, well. It's not going to hurt to try this doctor, is it? It's still awkward and Finns is not entirely convinced he can actually go ahead and do it - sit down in front of a complete stranger and tell him that he's currently impotent. He's 35, for God's sake, that kind of thing shouldn't happen to him. The look of pity on people's faces are definitely the worst part - he got it from absolutely everyone, the doctors and Stevie and even Xabi, who he hadn't told directly, but gave him a tight hug and said _'You're gonna be all right, we're here for you'_ as though he had just discovered he has cancer or something._ _

__Finns decides to give it a try because there's a small chance it might work out. If what Jamie says is true, then the lad really is some kind of miracle worker. Finns keeps imagining the guy as this really hot woman who simply undresses and then gives you a handjob and _voilà_ , you're cured! Not that it would work very well for him, but he wouldn't completely turn it down either. He imagines this because he can't imagine how a man can heal sexual impotence by simply _talking_ to you. But he's so desperate he'll do just about anything to make sure his holidays are successful and that he'll have all the sex he deserves with as many strangers as he possibly can._ _

__There are no signs on the door or anything; it's just a house. He rings the bell and less than two seconds later the door in unlocked from the inside. There's a woman sitting behind a desk, brown hair, big red lips and kind eyes. Finns decides he likes her even before she says anything._ _

__"Can I help you?" she asks, smiling._ _

__"Uh... Maybe?" He stuffs his hands in his pockets, nervously. "You see, I was recommended by a friend. I don't really have an appointment."_ _

__"Ah," she says, taking a look at her computer screen. "Which friend was that?"_ _

__"Jamie. Jamie Carragher."_ _

__The lady smiles again. "Mr. Carragher is a sweetheart."_ _

__Maybe _she_ is what got Jamie cured so fast. "Is he still coming here?"_ _

__"Oh yes, he's been with us for two years."_ _

__"Really?" Finns frowns a little. That man must be really incredible if No-Bullshit-Or-I'll-Break-Your-Legs Jamie is still coming here for therapy sessions even though he was healed in two sessions._ _

__"I think I might be able to find you a spot next week... Oh, no. Wait. That's already taken too. Next month only."_ _

__"Next _month_?" Finns asks, a little more disappointed than he thought he would be. "Well, that would be too late." The woman looks at him alarmed, the sort of suspicion that people who work at psychiatric clinics would have upon hearing people say that sort of stuff. "Oh, no. It's nothing like that. I have a trip scheduled for next month. So I won't be here."_ _

__"Ah," she smiles again. "I'll speak to the doctor and ask him if he can make room for you before that then. What is your name?"_ _

__"Stephen Finnan."_ _

__"All right, Mr. Finnan. Just a second."_ _

__It's only when he's left alone that Finns breathes out again. He didn't think he'd be this anxious about getting an appointment - he also didn't think this doctor would be this busy; clearly he underestimated the man._ _

__The place looks really nice, he notices. It's simple and clean and smart. There's a fancy leather couch with a couple of fancy leather chairs and some nice looking paintings on the wallpapered walls. Really pretty._ _

__He approaches the large bookcase that takes most of the wall opposite the secretary's desk and starts reading some of the titles there. They're all about madness or craziness or unhealthy desires. There are some there about sexual impulses that Finns can sort of relate to. It's then that he notices a portrait in one of the upper shelves. And - _shit_._ _

__There are two very well dressed men on the photo, shaking hands while the older one is handing the younger one some sort of award. It's the smile on the young men's face that makes Finns' heart skip a couple of beats and his throat feels suddenly dry._ _

___Shit, shit, shit_ , Finns keeps repeating in his head. _ _

__He hears the door clicking behind him and swirls around to apologize to the nice woman and tell her he remembered he's got something really important to do and he'll have to come back later - or _never_ \- and then bolt. But he only gets to snap his mouth shut just as quickly as he opened it, because it's not the secretary anymore - well, not only her._ _

__A very familiar smile, the size of the world, greets him. "Look what the cat dragged in," comes that Australian accent Finns never quite forgot, but made a point of not thinking about ever again because of reasons. "I thought it was just a coincidence of names when Rachel told me _Stephen Finnan_ was here. Turns out I really am that lucky."_ _

__"Oh," is all Finns says, because really - what is he going to say?_ _

__Sitting down with a complete stranger to discuss his erection - or lack thereof - would be awful enough, but with a person he knows - and who he is, if he's completely honest, mildly attracted to - is just... Unthinkable. He can't do this. If he didn't think he'd be able to do it before, now he's certain of it._ _

__"Look, I'm sorry to take up your time. Your secretary already told me you can't see anyone until next month and -"_ _

__"Oh, nonsense! Please. I can make time for you right now."_ _

__Finns stops. "... what?"_ _

__"Yeah, of course. Come on in," he says, motioning towards the office door._ _

__"Uhm..." Finns swallows down hard. "I... I don't know. I don't want to -"_ _

__"Mr. Finnan," he says, in that same manner Finns remembers very well from the hospital. It sends a shiver up his spine all the way to the back of his head. "Please."_ _

__Finns looks from Harry to the woman, smiling at him as though she had just done something great, totally oblivious to the amount of horror she had just caused, then back at Harry, waiting for him with the door open._ _

__Sighing in defeat, Finns just nods and marches towards the doctor like a man marked for death._ _

__"Can I offer you anything, Mr. Finnan?" Rachel asks. "Coffee, tea, water...?"_ _

__"No, thank you." _I might drown myself in it to avoid the embarrassment, keep me away from liquids._ "I'm good."_ _

__Harry's office looks even nicer than the waiting room. It's large and bright, with some large windows framed by blue velvety curtains. There's a couch and a disproportionally big armchair for the patients, Finns assumes - whichever makes you more comfortable - and another one, large, black and beautiful, for Harry. Also a nice looking desk made of old wood, books all over the place - even the carpet looks nice._ _

__"You have nice taste," Finns comments, for lack of something better to say. "I like your office."_ _

__"Thank you," he says, standing a little further away, watching Finns with a tiny little grin dancing on the corner of his lips and a sort of sparkle in his eyes that frankly Finns doesn't want to know the meaning of._ _

__He looks so much more attractive now than he did back at the hospital. Maybe because Finns is not under the influence of drugs anymore, or because his head is not as clouded by a near-death experience now. Or perhaps it's the beard - he's allowed it to grow a little, one of those can't-be-bothered-to-shave-five-o'clocks sort of beards that just look like laziness on most men but that go so incredibly well with Dr. Kewell that Finns can't avoid but wonder how the hell does a psychiatrist get away with a look like this._ _

__Finns remembers his thoughts of good-looking women undressing as form of treatment and suddenly he has to look away. He's starting to get that thing again - the one where his head turns him on, but his dick remains down, thus making him very confused and incredibly frustrated - and right about now, also flushed._ _

__"So," he starts, stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring at the spot of carpet between his feet. "Is this a formal consult, then?"_ _

__"Doesn't have to be. Unless you want it to."_ _

__"I don't," he rushes to say._ _

__Harry chuckles. "Didn't think you would."_ _

__"What is this then?"_ _

__The doctor shrugs. "I don't know, just a chat. You obviously came here for a reason. What is it that you need professional help with?"_ _

__Finns draws the air in very slowly. "Well, actually - It was a mistake. I shouldn't have come."_ _

__"Oh?" Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest and arching both his eyebrows. He looks very, very amused, almost like he was expecting this to be Finns' reaction. "And why's that?"_ _

__"My problem is not exactly - the sort of thing you deal with. It's more, uhm... Physical," he lies._ _

__"Physical?"_ _

__"Yes."_ _

__"So why did you come?"_ _

__"Because a friend of mine insisted. But now I see it was a mistake. You really can't help me with it."_ _

__"Don't you at least want me to try?"_ _

___Yes, yes I do. I want you to try getting me hard, please._ Finns shuts his eyes for a second and tries to quiet down the voices screaming in his head. "I'm sorry, but... I don't think it's a good idea."_ _

__"I see... Is that because you don't think therapy can help you or is it just me?"_ _

__"I - Therapy. It's not you, it's... The whole thing." Finns realizes he sounds like an absolute idiot, just babbling nonsense. He's trying to channel the great lawyer with all the great rhetoric, but that side of him seems to have shrunk back into a teenager._ _

__"Is it because of what I know, from the hospital? Because I can assure you, I'm very professional."_ _

__"I know, I - I've heard great things about you. I'm sure you're... great. As a doctor. I just don't - It's not that."_ _

__Harry simply smiles at him, and then, after a beat, "It's really good to see you, you know."_ _

__"Is it?" Finns asks, slightly uncertain about whether this is just small talk or if he's having a go at some psychiatric strategy to make him open up._ _

__"I wasn't sure what to think when you didn't call. Whether I should be glad or worried."_ _

___I almost did_ , Finns wants to say. _I almost called you five minutes after you left, but I was afraid if I had, I would just have to keep on calling._ And he wasn't ready to do that, was he? _ _

__Dr. Kewell actually helped him much more than either of them realized at the time. He gave Finns a sense of assuredness that was basically all he had to hold on to for the first few days. Turns out he was a lot more screwed up than he thought he was as well. And he didn't want to worry Stevie or deal with the inevitable shit-storm that would come with telling him the whole story, so he didn't say anything. Dr. Kewell is, to this day, the only person who knows how Finns almost over-dosed that night. And Finns did want to call him - so, so badly. Sometimes all you need to help you lift the burden is someone who can _listen_ , someone who _understands_. But he was never sure if that need was real or just a desperate attempt at having some kind of affection, any kind of affection. He was scared he would've turned Dr. Kewell into a buoy and held on to him like his life depended on it only to end up even more fragile than he was before._ _

__At that moment, what Finns needed was to toughen up and make it out of that pit by himself. Not get involved with someone out of sheer neediness. He had to get his life back, and that was something no one could help him with._ _

__Mostly, he's fine now. _Little_ issue aside, he doesn't feel depressed anymore. At times he gets upset - remembers things, misses things, regrets many others. But he's getting there, he thinks. One step at a time._ _

__Having an erection would actually skip a thousand steps at once, but that's not something he's particularly interested in sharing with this attractive doctor. God, no._ _

__As soon as Steve realized his impotence was more than just a one-time accident, the first thing he thought was that his sexual functions had been damaged by that near overdose. Needless to say he freaked out. Dr. Kewell was the first person to come to his mind then, for obvious reasons. Finns almost started crying at the thought of never having an erection again because he was too stupid and took 200 different drugs at once. It would've been better to have gotten himself killed, really. When he started taking his medical history to specialists all over the North of England, they'd all look at him with those sad, judgmental eyes that said _'You tried to kill yourself and ended up killing you dick instead, you dumbfuck'_ and that was just... Disheartening. _ _

__For a while there, Finns really didn't know how he'd live with himself. His life ruined at the age of 35 because of a moment of reckless abandon. He started avoiding everyone, especially Stevie; he didn't want his friend to find out about his condition, and much less about the sort of stuff that started going through Finns' head. Imagining an entire life alone was just... Too much. It was only once it got confirmed that there was nothing wrong with him from a physical point of view that Finns managed to reign himself in. Not completely, because there were no guarantees he'd ever get healed. But it was something, at least. The drugs hadn't caused it; he only had to find a way to pierce through his mental block._ _

__He thought of Dr. Kewell again at that time, but for completely different reasons. Reasons that, right now, are making him feel really awkward and inappropriate._ _

__"I'm doing ok," he says, an earnest smile finally gracing his features._ _

__"You look well," Harry agrees. "I see your hair has grown back. I can understand now why you were so desperate about having it shaved. It's a _beautiful_ hair. Has anyone ever told you your hair could be on television?"_ _

__"Ha, ha," Finns mock-laughs at the irony. "I'm going to ignore the sarcasm because my hair really is very nice." Just to prove the point, he combs a hand through it. His hair is silky and shiny and at that _perfect_ length for someone to grab it and - Fuck, not having any sex has turned him into a total pervert, it's all he thinks about, all the bloody time. "You said I should call if things got too bad," he continues. "It didn't. It got better."_ _

__"I'm glad to hear," Dr. Kewell nods. "But I'd be lying if I say I wasn't disappointed. Not that I was hoping anything bad would happen, but I - well, I was looking forward to hearing back from you."_ _

__"Really?" It's that thing again - patronizing or flirty?_ _

__"You're quite the character, Mr. Finnan. I don't get that very often in my office."_ _

__Finns snorts "A suicidal, drunk and bitter character, you mean."_ _

__"No, that I get all the time. I meant interesting."_ _

__There's a pause there during which Finns hasn't got a clue what he should say. This is - well, it's not like when you're fucked up and half-drugged and sitting in a hospital bed and this doctor says things that sound slightly flirtatious but you're not entirely sure so you don't really have to even take it under consideration or anything, mostly because, well, you're fucked up, so you've got an inalienable right to be just pissed off, and second because obviously he's trying to get you off-balance and more relaxed and maybe cheer you up a bit. But this - this is nothing like that._ _

__The most complicated part, though, is that Finn is - he's confused. At the same time this whole situation is weird and wrong in the most ridiculous manner and he just wants to run out of there, it's also making him feel awkward in a completely different way._ _

__There's just something about this man - Finns has felt this way around him since day one. Like he's a young boy who doesn't know how to deal with being attracted to someone. He keeps _blushing_ and _losing his words_ and neither of those things happen to Stephen Finnan. Never. In history._ _

__"Oh," Finns finally says after he realizes he's been quiet for a long time. Harry laughs. He actually thinks this is funny. What a _jerk_. "I should go," he continues, already moving towards the door. "I'm really sorry about wasting your time. Thank you for seeing me, though. I really appreciate it."_ _

__"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?" the Australian asks, taking a step forward. "Anything at all."_ _

__"I'm sure," Finns says, nodding. "Thank you. Again."_ _

__"How about dinner?" Finns freezes with his fingers around the doorknob._ _

__After a beat, he finally turns back to look at the other man, who's eyeing him expectantly and suddenly not looking so confident anymore. There's something like anxiety in his eyes, the way his lips are hanging parted as though he's trying to come up with something to say - like he's _nervous_. _ _

__Finns blinks at him, slowly. "... what?"_ _

__"We could have a chat over dinner. Somewhere nice, not as intimidating as this," he waves his hand about the room. "Maybe you'll feel better. Talking, I mean. And it doesn't have to be about your problem, anyway. It could be about anything. Whatever you want. Just dinner."_ _

__"Are you... Is this... Like a date, you mean?" Finns asks after stumbling upon his words a little. "Are you asking me out?"_ _

__Harry smiles again. "Maybe. That depends on what you're about to answer. I don't deal very well with rejection. No pressure, though."_ _

__Finns just stands there, completely dumbfounded and not knowing how to behave properly - is there even an appropriate etiquette for a moment like this? Like when you go to see a doctor and the doctor asks you out? Is this ok? Should he be freaking out? Should his heart be beating this fast? Should his palms be so sweaty and his head so foggy?_ _

__Should he _not_ want this?_ _

__"Is this even..." he starts, then trails off when he realizes he doesn't know where that question was going, so he just tries again, something different this time. "Are you always this outrageous to your patients?"_ _

__Harry laughs again, that same laughter Finns remembers from the hospital and the car drive and it strikes up a chord somewhere in his chest. It was a wave of warmth in an otherwise dreary time of his life. He didn't even remember until this second, but apparently his mind kept it registered, that same sensation of assuredness and affection he felt back then._ _

__"Well... No," Harry says, shuffling over so that he's standing exactly in front of Finns now, only a few steps away. Finns realizes that if he stretches out his arm he might be able to touch Harry, which is something he's never done before, it just occurs to him. He's got no idea what he feels like except for that tiny little kiss on his cheek. Suddenly his face is burning up again. "I'm known for being quite the bold guy, but never like this. And you're not my patient either, which I'm very grateful for. I'm worried about you, actually, because I've never known of anyone who's come into my office and didn't have a proper reason for that, so I'm genuinely concerned for what might have brought you here, but on the other hand, if you had accepted to sit down and talk business, then I wouldn't be able to ask you out. I would never do that to a patient. So I take no offense that you don't want me as your doctor." He pauses, and then, "I just had to say something. Anything. If you say no then I'll pretend I never embarrassed myself and let you be on your way to put an end to both our miseries, and I understand that this is a very long shot, but - I thought a lot about you, Mr. Finnan. A lot. In a way that I don't usually think about people I've spent less than 24 hours around. And just now I had a feeling that I would never see you again if you walked out that door, so I had to take my chances." Harry shrugs._ _

__Finns is not entirely sure what happens afterwards. He knows he walks out because he's somehow standing on the sidewalk. He knows there were words uttered and that he might've said yes and also maybe given his phone number to Dr. Kewell and that they may or may not have agreed to have dinner the next day, but none of it is very clear._ _

__It's as though he's been lifted up to a cloud and doesn't really know how to get back down. How does one go from seeking professional help to having a date with the therapist?_ _

__Slowly, the anesthetic effect starts wearing off and Finns is left in very embarrassing levels of equal parts excitement and dread over this. The very point of his visit to the doctor's office was forgotten for the whole of fifteen minutes that their conversation lasted, and it was enough to cause this much damage._ _

__How the _fuck_ is he going to go out on a date when he can't even get his fucking dick to stand to attention? What is he supposed to do, sit down with Harry and explain to him over dinner how he's impotent and their date is gonna have to be cut short?_ _

__"Oh, fuck," he mutters to himself. Every single nerve in his body is telling him this is a bad idea; in his mind, there are thousands of abort signals flashing in neon light. He should go back inside, apologize and tell Harry that it was a mistake._ _

__Except he doesn't want to. He wants to find out what it feels like to touch Dr. Kewell and he wants to run the pad of his thumb on his lips and then follow up with his mouth and - _damn_. This is going to be a disaster._ _

__Finns fumbles around in his pocket and fishes out his phone, pressing speed dial number one with shaky fingers. It goes straight to voice mail._ _

__"You are a fucking disgrace! I fucking hate you! You have ruined my life forever, you miserable cunt!" he yells before letting out a whimper and then ending the call._ _

__Stevie's going to freak out when he checks his phone._ _

__x-x-x_ _

__Daniel spends the rest of the day hiding and when he finally leaves, he does so through the back door. His act of cowardice turns out to be rather fruitful, though, because he runs into Pepe back in the kitchen and the barman invites him for a couple of drinks, which turns out to be very nice. Dan hadn't been out for drinks in ages, hadn't spoken to anyone who wasn't Martin or Simon or Nicklas, hadn't seen people looking happy and talking loudly with their cheeks flushed from the alcohol in a lifetime._ _

__It feels good to be outside _living_ for a change - and even better not to have any of his closest friends around. Daniel loves all of them - even Martin - but sometimes he just wants them to stay the fuck away - Martin more often than the others. They know too much to leave him alone. Simon and Nick would never sit next to him in a pub and talk about amenities, discuss football and the renovation at Mercy and whatever other meaningless crap they can think of. They'd stare at him with their big doe eyes and believe that they weren't really being inconvenient or pushy in any way just because they weren't saying anything - but that's exactly the problem with close friends, they don't actually have to say anything._ _

__Well, admittedly, Martin would never use the big doe eyes technique. He would simply yell some absurdity, because that's what Martin does. Half the things he says make no sense, and the other half are simply too outrageous to be taken seriously. Daniel used to think that Martin simply had no fucking sense of anything, but he's come to realize, over the years, that this whole in-your-face thing he does is all part of his strategy. Martin shocks people into submission. Nine times out of ten, it works. Right now, though, he seems to have added some new sets of skills to his menu, and Daniel hasn't decided yet which Martin he likes _less_ \- the one that talked crap or the one that makes sense. They're both equally irritating, though._ _

__When he returns home that night, half drunk and with his stomach fuller than it had been in weeks, Daniel goes straight to bed, no shower or anything, washed over by contentment. He manages not to think about Fernando - well, ok, not too much, or not enough to let it get to him anyway - and has the best night of sleep in months._ _

__The next day, he's feeling so good that he decides to go back to Mercy. Maybe that run-in with Pepe was a sign that he's doing the right thing, that sliding himself back into society really is the answer to all his woes. The minute he gets there, though, all that determination turns into dust and Daniel goes back to panicking because Fernando's there again and if he doesn't run to get the hell out of his line of sight they're gonna have to talk and just _Hey_ and _How are you_ is not going to do the trick twice._ _

__Along with the guilt for having lied to Fernando, cheated on Steve and hurt the two people that mattered the most in the world, came an ironclad resolve: Daniel swore to himself that he would stay out of their ways. For real. He made the decision of never calling Fernando again about ten times before it actually stuck, but it eventually did, and he was willing to keep his word, even if it had been given only to himself._ _

__The problem is: it's really fucking hard not to _want_ Fernando when he's so close. Daniel has to keep reminding himself that the Spaniard doesn't want him back, doesn't even want to look at him, because all _he_ wants is to take Fernando in his arms and never let him go again. He's never missed anything in his life quite as much as he misses Fernando._ _

__He takes the task of organizing the store room to himself without anyone telling him to do so. Martin shows up about a million times to yell and say that they need people elsewhere, but Daniel simply ignores him. Eventually somebody is gonna have to do something about that store room and he's sure they'll be thanking him for taking care of it so proactively - regardless of what his real intentions are._ _

__At some point close to lunch time, Dan's going through the rubber boxes - because of course they have tons of those in there - when the door opens again and he takes a weary breath to tell Martin to fuck off. Halfway through it, however, he realizes it's not the Slovakian._ _

__Xabi smiles from behind his neat ginger beard. "Just as charming as I remember, Daniel."_ _

__"I'm sorry," Dan says, slightly embarrassed. "I thought it was Martin pestering me again."_ _

__Xabi just shrugs, invites himself to step inside the room with him. He's managed to create more space, but it's still not enough for him to be comfortable around Xabi. Dan can smell his perfume - some expensive and delicious fragrance, like the ones Steve used to wear. For some reason, Xabi's proximity makes Daniel - not nervous exactly, but unsettled._ _

__He hasn't seen Xabi in just as much time as he hasn't seen Steve. And the memories of their last meeting aren't exactly very good ones; Dan still remembers very vividly the utter sense of devastation that washed over him while they waited for news on Steve at that hospital. It was the worst night of his life._ _

__It occurs to him that he never really thanked Xabi for sticking around that day, and then for offering him a ride once they got both kicked out. Xabi never fancied him, but he's always been kind. It's been too long since all that, though, and it probably doesn't make sense to say anything anymore. And anyway, Dan doesn't exactly feel like bringing all that shitstorm back to the surface. It's probably better to leave it at that._ _

__"I didn't know you were here," Xabi says, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. Even wearing completely casual clothes he looks like he just stepped out of some fashion catalogue, Daniel thinks. Some people are just born with that kind of talent._ _

__"Yeah, I'm behind the scenes. Putting this place in order," he motions his arms towards the dozens of boxes still piled all around._ _

__"Really? 'Cause we could use a few extra hands out there. Maybe you could -"_ _

__Dan cuts him off. " _I'm organizing the store room_ ," he says, a lot more emphatically than he'd meant, but there you go._ _

__Xabi cocks him a discreet eyebrow. "Sorry," he says, nodding his head. "I didn't know you felt so strongly about it. I'm sure you're doing a fantastic job."_ _

__Daniel considers apologizing for being a dick, but what's the point? That's what everyone expects of him anyway._ _

__"What are _you_ doing here?" he asks._ _

__"You sound surprised."_ _

__"Aren't you too busy to be here?"_ _

__"I have a very flexible schedule."_ _

__"Oh," Dan says, 'cause he doesn't really know what to answer to that._ _

__"Besides, this place is important to me too. I met my husband here."_ _

__"Right." Sometimes Daniel forgets that Xabi is a Mercy habitué. Or used to be, anyway. Guys like him - and Stevie and Steve - are from a different breed. They're so rare at Mercy that it's easy to miss them in the crowd._ _

__"Steven wanted to come as well," Xabi continues, the smile quirking up the corner of his mouth in mischief. _He's teasing me_ , Daniel realizes. He's always known there is an evil mind behind all that class. "But he's working on a big case now, couldn't really make the time. He felt very strongly about one of us coming, though. Unlike you and me, Steven is a Scouser born and bred, he's been coming to Mercy since he still needed fake IDs."_ _

__"Isn't that wonderful?" Dan asks, turning his face away, pretending to be looking for something, just to roll his eyes. "Is there anything you need?"_ _

__"Disinfectant."_ _

__"Yeah, I have it here somewhere..." The Dane starts searching through the boxes, one by one - he's pretty sure he's seen one with disinfectant and other cleaning stuff..._ _

__"How are you, Daniel?" Xabi asks, and Dan wonders whether this is one of those elevator types of conversation or if Xabi really means the question. They're not friends or anything, it's not like they _have_ to make small-talk._ _

__"Fine," he goes with default._ _

__"Really?" There's a clear tune of disbelief on Xabi's voice that is mildly offensive. It's like he's saying, _'Who are you kidding? You look awful_ ', which is true, of course, but not something anyone wants to hear._ _

__And it still strikes Daniel as odd to be having that sort of interaction with _Xabi_. Why is he even interested? Didn't he get the memo his husband has been circulating for five years preaching about the malefactions of being civil to Daniel Agger? All of Xabi's friends hate him, so why doesn’t he?_ _

__It makes the Dane even more unsettled._ _

__"You don't sound like you believe me," Dan comments, like _'What the fuck?'_ , his back turned to the other man because he's still searching for the damn disinfectant and because he doesn't really want to make eye-contact._ _

__" _Fine_ is usually code for the opposite."_ _

__"I'm really fine, Xabi."_ _

__"So you hiding back here wouldn't have anything to do with the fact Fernando's out there, then?"_ _

___Strike_._ _

__Daniel bites on his lip not to tell Xabi to go fuck himself. He finds the disinfectant and his hand closes around the bottle with a lot more strength than necessary. He tries to keep his poise as he turns back to Xabi, but he can imagine how pinched his features are, because motherfucking Alonso smiles all triumphantly at him._ _

__"Anything else?" he asks, flatly, trying to make it clear that he's not interested in whatever Xabi might have to say._ _

__"You should be out there." Daniel's got no idea what he means by that, but frankly he's not sure he wants to know. Saying anything back would imply diving into a subject he doesn't want to discuss with Alonso - he's smarter than all his friends and hasn't got one single tiny reason to be sympathetic, so no, thank you._ _

__"How's Steve?" He changes the subject abruptly to one that is just as disconcerting as the previous one and that invites Xabi to say all sorts of dire things as well, perhaps even more so than the Fernando subject, but Xabi might as well be the only person on this planet who can answer that question and might be willing to do so._ _

__"He's ok," Xabi says, simply but with a hint of affection. Daniel gets it that he doesn't want to say too much because he knows he'd be severely judged by his husband if he did so, but the short little smile dancing on his lips indicate that he wants Dan to relax about it._ _

__"Ok usually means the opposite," he retorts and Xabi laughs._ _

__"Clever," he says, pointing his index finger at Dan. "He's ok. Really. He's moving on." Xabi makes a pause. "And so should you."_ _

__And that - well. Daniel doesn't say anything, just stares; Xabi's telling him something there that is much deeper than those four little words. He's looking back at Dan as though he's saying _'Stop beating yourself up'_ and _'You deserve more than this'_ and Daniel's not sure what to make of that. _ _

__He's heard that same type of thing, in much more assertive ways, from tons of people - ok, not tons, three people, but they can be so fucking annoying that they should count for a ton - but it never stroke him the same way Xabi's words just did. Because it's _Xabi_ \- Xabi who's married to Stevie, Xabi who's best friends with Steve, Xabi who works with Fernando, Xabi who fucking pointed a finger to his face and called him an asshole four months ago. Xabi who he should've listened to because, apparently, is always right. That Xabi._ _

__"I'm gonna take this," Xabi says, raising the disinfectant bottle and waving it in the air. "Thank you. Fantastic job back here," he adds with a funny wink. Right before he leaves, though, he stops and says, in a more serious tone, "You should be out there, Daniel. Really."_ _

__It just doesn't make sense, which is precisely why it makes more sense than anything else._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just out of sheer curiosity: Steve Finnan really was raised in London. I've watched quite a few interviews with him and his accent really doesn't sound Irish at all. Of course that's just me and my non-native-speaker-of-English ears, but you know.
> 
> In case you don't know who Jamie is, I highly recc that you google him because he is Frank Lampard's much _much_ hotter cousin. He's past his 40s now and boy is he still hotter than hot... You might know him from Sky Sports, tho. He's a commentator these days.


	21. It's always darkest before the dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to upload this at least until next week, but then something really nice happened and I thought why not? :) There were lots of new paragraphs added and things tinkered with in comparison to what it was like the first time the story was posted. I hope the changes were all for the best and that you guys like it.
> 
> Months and months and months of work, of reading these chapters so many times I have them all memorized by now. It feels good to be finally over. I really hope you guys enjoy the finale. Your feedback is, as always, more than welcome. Please let me know your thoughts! :) This is the ending, after all.
> 
> Thank you SO, SO MUCH to everyone who has had enough patience to wait for updates and read this little monster. Everyone reading it: you guys rock. :)
> 
> Also as per usual, I beg you to please forgive me for all the mistakes you will surely find. Have a nice read!

Daniel doesn't listen to Xabi - is too scared to listen to him; being a coward and shying away from things he cannot fix is so much easier than confronting them, so why bother? - and stays in the store room for the rest of the day. Pepe shows up some time in the afternoon and brings him a sandwich and a beer and they sit together and laugh about nothing again, which is pretty nice. Martin comes back, of course, but Pepe's still there, so he refrains from lecturing Daniel and instead just glares from the door; Dan pretends he's not there until he grows tired and walks away.

The rest of his day is pretty uneventful and also very productive. By the time he's finished, the store room has been returned to its former glory. Every box has been tucked away and properly labeled - more importantly, however, there's enough space for a good fuck again. When the club reopens and bitches start coming back here for a quickie, it's Daniel they'll have to thank for. He likes to think of this as a way of giving back to the community. They should change the name of this room to The Daniel Agger Room - You're Welcome.

Daniel waits until the movement has gone quieter in the main area of the club to go home, purposefully avoiding Martin - who turns out to be nowhere to be found (coincidentally or not, neither is Sergio). He tells himself he's not searching for Fernando when he lags behind to look around (he's not there anymore, anyway). Once he gets home, takes a nice shower and devours an entire pizza by himself, Dan decides he's not going back to the club anymore. He's already fulfilled his self-given task of tiding up that one room, and he's done a hell of a job as well. They have a million guys helping over; no one's going to miss him. 

Deep down, though, he hopes at least one person will, but that's something he'll never know. 

Maybe it's for the best. Or at least that's what he spends the entire day convincing himself of.

Martin shows up just as Dan's starting to think he would actually get away with it. Would it be too much for Martin to recognize his effort and understand that Mercy is not a good place for Dan to be? He doesn't realize how ridiculous his hopes are until he figures he’s expecting Martin to RECOGNIZE and UNDERSTAND. What was he thinking?

The Slovakian gives Dan the same practiced bullshit he's been preaching for weeks - _you're wasting your life, you have to move on, you need to get out of this flat, blah blah fucking blah_. The Dane lets him talk nonstop until his mouth is so dry he can't go on, and then he simply says, "I'm not going back there, Martin. The store room looks beautiful again and you can go and shag Sergio in there in my honor if you want. My contribution is over. That's it. Don't even waste your breath."

Martin looks at him for another two seconds before rolling him eyes and shrugging. "Fine."

"Fine?" Dan asks suspiciously.

"Yeah, fine. I tried."

"Well, thank you," Dan says. "For respecting my decision."

"There's one thing you should know, though."

_Here we go_ , Daniel thinks. There's always a catch with Martin.

"I'm telling you this because I want to have a guilt-free conscience." Martin puts his palms out in the air as though saying _I'm just doing my part_. "He's leaving."

"Who's leaving?"

Martin cocks him an eyebrow and Daniel gets it.

"What do you mean?" he asks, expression fading from annoyance into apprehension.

"He's going back to Spain," Martin answers with another shrug. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!" Daniel jumps from cool nonchalance to desperation in the blink of an eye. That can't be right, can it? He saw Fernando just yesterday and he looked fine. Well, in the thirty seconds that he saw him, or his back, anyway, from a distance, his body language seemed to be ok. And less than 24 hours later he's decided to go back to Spain? How does anyone make such a life-changing decision in 24 hours? It's impossible.

"Hey, at least now you have something else to depress yourself about, right? I'm sure you can occupy the next six months of your life just thinking about how you could've tried to win him back but chose to hide in the fucking store room instead while you grow fat and your ass gets permanently glued to that couch," Martin says, sarcasm bleeding through.

Daniel wants to stand up and punch his friend, because from all the times he hates Martin, he hates him the most when he's right. That motherfucker knows how to touch a finger on the raw.

"Fuck off, Martin," he says, coldly. "Get out. I want to be alone."

"I'll go. Just thought you'd want to know."

Just as soon as he's alone again, Daniel stands up and fumbles around his kitchen until he finds some alcohol. There's still a tiny bit of bourbon, which he downs at once and realizes it's not going to be nearly enough if he wants to make it through the night without throwing himself off a window.

He flies out the door to get more booze from the liquor store around the corner. 

Somehow he ends up at Fernando's flat.

x-x-x

 

Stevie loves Saturday nights.

Come Monday, when he sits down with Finns for their first weekly debrief and Finns asks - as he always does, because Finns is nothing if not the perfect manual for work place etiquette, even when it's just Stevie - how his weekend was, Stevie is going to say - as per usual as well, unless they spend the weekend together somehow, in which case it would just be pointless to tell Finns something he already knows - that he fucked Xabi's brains out all through Saturday night.

Sometimes that's true. But not most times.

He and Xabi have been together for way too long to spend Saturday nights fucking like rabbits. Their sex life is pretty rich, thank you very much, but there's something extremely self-affirmative and juvenile about making Saturday nights all about humping. Stevie and Xabi definitely don't need affirmation, and their days of living off of horny hormones are way behind.

The reason why he'll always tell Finns that he shagged his husband all night long is because, a) he loves what it does to Finns' face (the scrunched up, slightly disgusted, too-much-information sort of face) and being inappropriate and annoying is sort of Stevie's thing; and b) it sounds much cooler than what he actually does on his Saturday nights.

Eight times out of ten, if you show up by surprise at the Gerrard-Alonso household on a Saturday night, the two of them will be sitting comfortably on their large couch - Xabi with his feet propped up the coffee table, Stevie all stretched out with his legs over Xabi's lap -, eating something very crappy and watching some embarrassing TV show they'll deny to their deaths to have ever watched. Especially Xabi. Xabi has this thing where he tries to look like the coolest kid around all the time, but he's just like any other mortal at heart. He tells people his favorite movie is Casablanca and that he enjoys Dexter and Mad Men, but he's got every Bridget Jones movie on blu-ray and every season of Real Housewives of Merseyside downloaded to the computer. Stevie's husband is a farce. 

They never have time to just sit down and be lazy on work days, which is why they prefer to take the little time together they get during the week to do the couply things, like going out for a movie, or having dinner at fancy restaurants and then going back home to have sex until they pass out. Come Saturday, Xabi gathers all the episodes they have to catch up with and not even earth, wind or fire is bound to make them move from the couch until they have finished every single one of them.

They're halfway through the season finale of Grey's Anatomy when his cell phone starts ringing.

"Aren't you gonna get that?" Xabi asks when he doesn't move.

Stevie shushes him. "Meredith is in the middle of a crisis, shut up. It'll go to voice mail in a second."

Xabi rolls his eyes at him and they go back to silence. Only the phone doesn't stop, goes to voice mail at least twice and then starts ringing all over again.

"Oh, for God's sake," Xabi snaps, kicking Stevie's legs to get up and walk to the phone. "I can't focus on the television with this thing ringing." Xabi means to put it on vibration only, but sees the name flashing on the screen and thinks again. "It's Finns," he says, turning the phone to Stevie.

"Answer it," Stevie says, stealing from Xabi's popcorn bowl. "Tell him we're busy."

"Pause it," Xabi mouths out to him before saying, "Hey, Fin -" He stops mid-speech, eyes widening all of a sudden. 

"What?" Stevie asks, finally pressing pause. 

"Calm down, Finns," Xabi says. "I can't - I don't - Finns, I can't - You know what? Steven's gonna speak to you."

Frowning, Stevie stretches out his arm for Xabi to hand him the phone. "What?" 

"No idea, I couldn't understand a word. Sounds urgent, though."

"Finns?" Stevie speaks, finally interested.

"FUCK!"

Stevie arches his eyebrows at Xabi, who looks at him in a 'See?' manner and then shrugs, taking back his popcorn bowl and a seat on the other end of the couch to watch how the conversation unfolds with curiosity.

"Are you ok?" Stevie asks, slightly concerned. 

"No, I'm not ok! I'm not fucking ok! And it's all your fucking fault, you fucking arsehole!"

"Ok..." Stevie says calmly while pushing himself up into a sitting position. This is going to be trickier than he thought. Finns sounds positively exasperated. His voice is coming out at least an octave too high, like there's someone smashing his skull with a baseball bat as he talks. "Do you mind telling me what exactly have I done this time?"

"You know what you've done! You made me go to that stupid doctor and got me in a stupid date and now you're gonna have to come and pick me up!"

It takes Stevie a moment to process all the information. 

"Wait - you're with your date? Right now?" That's right, he remembers now. Finns told him he had a date tonight, Stevie teased him about it, but didn't really get into details - although he really, _really_ wanted to - due to the promise he made to Xabi about keeping his paws off of Finns' romantic enterprises. At least until he gets serious with someone again. Then he'll want to know the shit out of the guy and not even fucking Scotland Yard will keep him from it.

But the fact Finns is out with his date right now is just making Stevie all the more puzzled. "Has the guy done something to you?" Stevie asks, a serious tone to his voice. "Are you hurt?"

"Not yet, but I will be by the end of the night," Finns grunts. "My fucking _ego_ will be nonexistent! Totally obliterated!"

"Are you drunk?"

"I'M NOT FUCKING DRUNK!" Finns screams at him, absolutely irate.

Stevie scrunches his eyes at Xabi, trying to connect the dots and see if he can make any sense out of this. Xabi just shrugs.

Finns left a very weird and angry message on his phone the day before. When Stevie called him back, he was unusually teary-voiced and asking for help because he didn't know what to do - and at that point Stevie just wanted to get Finns in the car and drive him to a hospital because he must've hit his head or taken some very strong shit. 

"Are you ok, Finns?" Stevie asked then, genuine concern etched onto his voice. "Did something bad happen at the therapist you went to see?"

"Something _awful_. I don't know what to do, Stevie. I just... I'm lost."

Stevie's heart stopped for a moment there, because Jesus. What if the guy told Finns that he's a lost cause? That he'll never have another erection in his life? That would devastate him. All the one thousand options they could look for started rushing through Stevie's head at that exact moment. Doctors they could see, alternative medicine, clinics, magazines, books, porn, tantric masseurs - _anything_. He was absolutely determined to not let his best friend be impotent at the age of 35 - which invariably led him to decide, almost immediately, that he would go after Daniel and punch the fuck out of that idiot for being responsible for Finns' misery as well.

But then Finns added: "He asked me out. On a date. _And I said yes._ "

And that - well, what was Stevie supposed to say to that?

For the past couple of days, Finns has acted like a complete stranger. Stevie's so fucking confused he doesn't even know how he's supposed to feel about all this. The fact Finns went to see a therapist and got out of there with a date is already weird enough, but that's not even the worst part.

The Stephen he knows doesn't do any of that shit.

Finns doesn't do teary-voices or asks for help. Finns keeps his poker face on and calls everyone ridiculous and says Stevie is overreacting if he offers to help with anything. ' _I'm an adult, Stevie, I think I can take care of myself_ ' or ' _Seriously, Gerrard, I have no idea why I even tell you anything, you're an idiot_ '. Finns is the most self-sufficient, independent, arrogant bitch Stevie has ever met - and now, all of a sudden, he has turned into this desperate little thing in need of his best friend's help because _'I have a date and I don't know what to do'_.

Yeah, ok, it’s entirely possible that he had a little too much wine right now and that is clouding his judgment, but that doesn't explain everything. Before, he just sounded desperate; now he sounds like the guy is out to get him with a knife.

"You have to come and get me out of here," Finns pleads.

"Where are you?"

"At the restaurant."

"Are you hiding in the bathroom by any chance?"

Finns pauses. "Maybe."

"Jesus, Finns. Is it really going that bad? 'Cause I'm tempted to call the police and have that lad arrested. You make it sound like he's spanking you, and not in the good way."

Xabi makes a face at him and shakes his head in disapproval.

"No! No, it's not going that bad! It's going wonderfully well!" Finns starts screaming again. "I've had a brilliant night so far, I've never laughed so much in my life, Harry looks so good I just want to lick him up! I can barely fucking keep my hands to myself! It's a fucking horrendous perfect date!"

"Ok, I give up. I have no fucking clue what the hell's going on with you, I'm just confused."

"Stevie, listen to me," Finns starts, doing a great effort to sound less insane and more civilized and composed. "You have to come and get me, ok? Because I can't just walk out. If I do that, he'll see me. So you need to come here and figure out a way of getting me out through the window, or distract him while I leave, or something, I don't care. This is all _your_ fault. I didn't want to see a doctor, but you insisted and I went to his office just to please _you_ , so now it's your responsibility to get me out of this.”

"Oh, God," Stevie says, rolling his eyes. "Tell me, how long have you been in the bathroom, Finns?"

"I don't know. Ten minutes."

"You've left the guy hanging for ten minutes already? He probably thinks you already left by now. Or, I don’t know, that you’re dying."

"I'm going to leave him for an hour if you don't get your fucking Scouser arse here to get me out."

Stevie stops, takes a deep breath and locks eyes with Xabi, who clearly has no clue whatsoever of what's going on. Xabi would know exactly what to say to calm Finns down a little. Except Finns would never listen to Xabi in amidst a panic attack, so it has to be him. In times like this, Stevie wishes he had paid better attention to all his stupid psychology classes in college instead of having spent his time either sleeping at the back or having text-sex with someone - not Finns, though. Never Finns. Finns was the nerd who turned off his phone during classes and wrote down shit. So maybe _he_ should've learned something from classes after all.

"Finns," he starts, in a tone of infinite patience and wisdom. "Just listen very carefully to what I'm going to say, ok? First of all, breathe, Stephen." He hears a gust of air on the other end of the line, but more like a muted cry than an actual breath. "I know exactly what's going on with you, ok?" Bullshit. "I can almost see you doing that thing with your face."

"What thing?"

"That thing where you do a face 'cause you don't want to deal with emotions." That part at least is true. Finns does have an I-don't-handle-bollocks face. "You have to relax, ok? You said it yourself, the date is going fine. You have no reason to be so desperate."

"No reason? _No reason?!_ " Finns' voice escalates again. "May I remind you that I can't fucking _have an erection_? My dick is _dead_ , Steven. I have a fucking humiliation hanging between my legs. And Harry - Harry's gorgeous and healthy and athletic and he's probably thinking right now that he's going to get laid tonight because that's what happens when you have good dates. Dates like this end up in _breakfast_ , Steven. _And I can't fuck him_."

Well... Shit. What do you say at a time like this?

Stevie has no idea how to respond to that, because he can't even begin to imagine how he would feel if he were in Stephen's skin right now. He’d probably be completely freaking out as well. There was this one time, back when he and Xabi were still dating and Finns wasn't speaking to him, and he got really drunk - it was Finns' birthday and they had made plans, before, so Stevie was feeling awful and Finns hadn't even answered the phone when he tried to call. Xabi picked him up from the pub, took him home and Stevie tried to make a move, but couldn't really do it and ended up passing out on Xabi's couch. He couldn't look at Xabi for two whole days after that. Well, technically, it wasn't _just_ because he'd failed in bed; there was a lot of guilt involved, and he didn't know exactly how to explain to Xabi that he could be in love with him and feel awful for Finns at the same time - which was very, very confusing at first, even to himself - so Stevie simply avoided him.

He did have the too-drunk-to-care excuse up his sleeve, though, and that has been the only time when he's failed to deliver, but he can get the drama. How do you tell someone who's hot and horny but cannot have sex that he should just relax and enjoy his night without thinking about that part? 

"Maybe you should... Stop thinking," Stevie tries, because that's everything he's got. And if that fails, he might just have to go pick Finns up from the restaurant. Which is worse: failing in bed or running away through the back door?

"That's your advice? Thank you very much, you're a fucking genius, Steven," Finns roars.

"No, I mean it. The reason why you went to see that guy in the first place was because your doctors said that there's nothing wrong with your bodily functions, it's just your head that's blocking your impulses, right? So just stop thinking. The more you think about it, the worse you get. You're acting like a maniac, Finns."

"That's fucking easy for you to say."

"It's really not. Really, _really_ not. You know I want you to get better more than anyone 'cause I hate seeing you like that. I wish I had some magic words to give you, Finns, but unfortunately I don't think anyone does. You really just have to let yourself go a little. Stop thinking about what happens after the date and just focus on the now. You're having a good time, you like the guy - then fuck it. That's all that matters. You don't have to sleep with him."

"I'm gonna be the worst date of his life."

"Because you don't want to fuck him?"

"I _want_ to fuck him, I just can't. My head right now is just -" Finns lets out a terribly frustrated groan. "I can't deal with this, Stevie. What the fuck was I thinking? I can't be turned on and _off_ at the same fucking time."

"Of course you can, Stephen," Stevie says. "You're allowed to feel horny and fucked up at the same time. Why should you be denied basic human needs just because you're coming from a messed up relationship? That's what's doing your head in, because you can't separate one thing from the other. You keep thinking about all the crap you've been through in the past when really you should just think about the present." Stevie makes a pause and Finns remains quiet, which the Scouser takes as a sign he's starting to make some sense to his friend and ploughs on. "Here's what I want you to do, ok? Get your shit together, go back outside, finish your dinner and invite him to go back to yours." Finns draws the air in sharply on the other end, but Stevie rushes to continue before he can start making up terrified excuses again. "Offer him some wine, have a nice conversation, and let things flow. If he tries to kiss you, you let him. If he tries to touch you, you let him. Let him do the hard work, you just stay there, relax and enjoy it. I'm sure you'll feel a lot better."

Finns is silent for a beat. "What if nothing happens and I freak out again?"

"Just tell him that you don't want to do it tonight and that'll be it. There's nothing wrong with not having sex on your first date. If he says something unpleasant or never wants to see you again, that's a sign that you were wrong about him after all and he's an arsehole so you're better off without that jerk." He smiles, more to himself than anything. "But I have a feeling you won't have to send him on his way."

There's a deep breath and then Stevie hears the sound of something like a door being pushed open. "All right," Finns says, sounding a lot calmer now. "I'll do that."

"Of course you will."

"Ok. I'm hanging up now."

"Tell me everything tomorrow."

"I still blame you for this."

"Blame it on me when you wake up all well-shagged in the morning too."

"Fuck you."

Just like that, Finns hangs up and Stevie is invaded by the incredible bliss of a duty well done. He slumps back against the couch, a toothy grin from side to side on his lips. No crisis has ever been better handled than this one right now, he doesn’t think. 

Xabi cocks him an eyebrow. "Finns was having a mental break-down," he explains.

"You look very happy about it."

"I'm proud of myself. I might've saved his night. Fuck, I might've saved his _life_."

"To be honest, I'm proud of you too," Xabi says. "You, telling Finns to go snog someone you don't know? Congratulations, honey. I think you're finally not a creep anymore."

Stevie throws a pillow at his husband, who cracks up laughing and defends himself with the now empty bowl.

"You'll see the creep. Now shush it, Alonso. I still have to find out what happened to Meredith," he says, making himself comfortable again and pressing play. "God, Grey's Anatomy's finales are so tense."

 

x-x-x

 

Daniel doesn't really know what he's doing, to be honest. Fernando lives some good forty minutes on foot from his place and it's Liverpool, so it's cold and wet, but he doesn't mind. You'd think that would give him enough time to figure out what he thinks he's going to achieve by showing up at Fernando's door, or at least change his mind, but no. Daniel keeps his hands stuffed inside his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears, trying to get warm, but he doesn't think and doesn't give up either.

It's pretty stupid, he knows that much. But it still doesn't stop him from knocking.

It doesn't take more than a few seconds for Fernando to open the door - it's so fast Dan doubts he even checked who it was through the peephole. Of course not. He had no reason whatsoever to expect someone like Daniel - and Fernando's face says as much.

"Daniel," he says after a beat, not exactly hiding his surprise - at least Dan hopes it's surprise; it could be something much worse.

"Hey," he tries his hand at a smile with a feeling he's failing miserably. They fall into a terribly, terribly awkward silence - and this is the moment that Daniel should've thought through, because it's his turn to talk. Fernando's waiting for him to say something, and he's got no fucking clue what he's supposed to be saying. "Can we... Can we talk? Just for a moment."

Fernando is suspicious, but he says, "Ok," and moves out of the way for Daniel to go inside.

The Dane breathes in deeply, welcoming both the familiar scent of Fernando's place - of _Fernando_ \- and the warmth. He gives himself a second to try and calm down the nonstop boiling in his stomach. It doesn't work and he knows he's screwed, but he's come too far. 

Fernando's standing a few steps back, watching him like he doesn't know him at all, or perhaps like he knows exactly what to expect of him – and it’s nothing good. Certainly like he's waiting for Daniel to make the first move.

"Don't leave," Dan says after a while, like a plea.

Fernando's brow furrows lightly. "What?"

"Don't go. I'm sorry, I know it's none of my business, but I can't let you do that. Not because of me."

"Daniel, what are you -"

"Just, wait," he says, raising a hand in the air to stop Fernando. He needs to get this out before he loses his train of thought again. Dan takes a deep breath, gazing away from the man with the dark hair before him. When he raises his eyes back at him, he's not really sure what Fernando might be able to see there. Probably a lot of weariness and pain and memories - of all the horrible nights after everything went wrong and some bittersweet ones from before that. That's what he's thinking about right now, as he tries to put his head in order.

Dan wants to say _I miss you_ and _I'm sorry_ and _Please, can I kiss you?_ , but when he opens his mouth again what he says is, "Don't go back to Spain." This time Fernando doesn't rush to interrupt him, but he still looks confused, so Daniel just goes on. 

"I know I fucked up a lot of things for you, but I never meant - well, I never meant any of it, really. I'm just an idiot. I know it's hard to believe, but that's the truth. I'm the biggest fucking idiot, the stupidest dickhead this world has ever seen. I'm sorry that I hurt you, Fernando, but please - don't go. Even if you never want to see me again, even if you give me a fucking restraining order - I won't ever set foot in front of you again, but I just can't let you do that. You love Liverpool and I know how much being here means to you. Don't let that go to waste because of a scumbag like me."

The Spaniard is quiet for a moment too long, pressing his lips tightly together into a firm line. Daniel swallows down hard, his heart ready to burst a hole open in his chest any minute now.

"I have to go back, though," Fernando says, calmly. Daniel almost falls apart right there and then. "My family's there. My friends. Even my dog. I have to go back." He pauses. "But it's only for a week."

Wait. What?

"A week?" Daniel blinks at him. "So... You're coming back?"

"Yeah. Of course I am. Who told you I wasn't?"

"Martin. He said -" Well, fuck. _Martin_. Everything makes perfect sense now. Daniel fell like a little duck. "Shit." He scratches the back of his neck, feeling really stupid and also very angry at Martin, but he has to take his hat off to that wanker. That was brilliantly played. He seems to know Daniel better than he knows himself.

"I can't really leave, even if I wanted to," Fernando continues. "I have a contract with the publishing house and my editor is here, so I have to stay. At least until I finish my book."

"Of course," Daniel agrees half-heartedly. "I didn't think."

"No," Fernando replies, offering him a barely-there smile, curving only the corner of his lips. His hair is different and his eyes are different and Fernando's not the same person he was four months ago, clearly, but his smile still warms Daniel from the inside out and melts all the shit in his heart away. It's honest and kind, not like he's saying _You're such a douche, you pathetic dumbass_ ; bur rather _That was sort of stupid, but also sort of sweet_.

"Well, I should..." Dan says, eyes flickering away from Fernando again, because hell. He just wants to touch Fernando, to feel him again, pull him into his arms and slide his hands underneath his shirt; Daniel wants to press his lips on the soft skin on his neck and draw words on his throat with his tongue to compensate for all the things he doesn't know how to speak out-loud. "I should go. I think I've embarrassed myself enough for one night." 

"Wait," Fernando says, softly - a little confused, a little unsure, a little fond, maybe (although Dan thinks that last part is probably just his brain reading too much into things). "You spent three days avoiding me at the club and now you rush to my flat because you heard I was leaving. I don't understand."

"I wasn't avoiding you. Well - I _was_ , but only because I thought you didn't want to see me and I didn't want to make things awkward and then ruin one more thing for you. I didn't know you would be there, honest to God. If I did, I wouldn't have gone."

"Oh." Daniel can swear he just saw a hint of disappointment there. His heart jumps in his chest. "I wasn't avoiding you," Fernando explains. "Did it seem like I was?"

"No." Actually, he wouldn't even know, would he? He barely spent any second outside the store room to know what Fernando was acting like. "I just - assumed that you would." He pauses. "You never answered any of my calls."

"I was angry," he shrugs, simply.

"... and you're not anymore?" Daniel blinks at him.

Fernando considers him for a moment. "Nobody stays angry forever," he says. "Now I'm just..." He ponders the words on his tongue. "Disappointed."

"Oh," Daniel says, because he did feel this tiny little bit of hope coming alive for a second there, in spite of his better judgment. It sounds absolutely fair that Fernando is disappointed, though - maybe more than just that, even. And he wouldn't know what to say in his defense. Probably because there is nothing to be said.

"You know what I never understood?" Fernando continues after a moment, almost like he'd been mulling over what he's about to say for a long time, just waiting for the right moment to get it out. Daniel freezes, not entirely sure he wants to hear it, but he's not about to stop Fernando either. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Daniel blinks slowly at him. Fernando's weathering stormy waters here, but he remains absolutely calm. "Tell you what, exactly?"

"That you had a boyfriend. You could've said it. Like Stevie told Xabi."

_Ah_ , Daniel thinks. _Of course_. He's been listening to the stories - the beautiful, colorful love tales of Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso. How could Daniel ever live up to the most heart-warming love affair the world has ever seen? He fucking hates those stories. He hates Stevie-and-Xabi, the couple. They ruin things for everyone by acting like life is perfect and true love is meant to last forever. He spent four years with Steve trying to live up to the standards of Stevie and Xabi, and now Fernando seems to think he should've done the same for him as well.

Well, fuck Stevie and Xabi. Fuck them both and fuck their fairy tale love affair. Real life is not like that.

"I didn't think you would forgive me if I told you," he answers, simply, not exactly doing a good job at concealing his distaste for the indirect comparison drawn there.

"Maybe. I don't know. But at least you would've been honest." Fernando pauses. "Mistakes happen, you know? You got crazy one night and you cheated on your boyfriend. I would've understood that and whatever happened afterwards - well, I don't know what could've happened afterwards. But I know I hate what you did, Daniel. You went back to the club that night like you didn't have a care in the world. You could've just said something."

"I wanted to, but -"

"And then at _Xabi's_ ," Fernando continues, finally giving signs that disappointment is not everything he's feeling towards Daniel right now. There's a simmering indignation behind his words. "Do you realize I had just been introduced to him? Less than an hour before you showed up, I was talking to Finns. And he was talking about you, too." He lets out a broken laugh. "God, I didn't even remember that until right now. He was saying his boyfriend didn't want to do anything with him anymore and that he wasn't gonna show up because they weren't doing so good and I thought - I really did, that was my exact thought at the time - I thought _damn, his boyfriend must be a cock. He seems like such a nice guy_."

Well, that - That hurts. That really fucking hurts.

Daniel opens his arms wide and then lets them fall back close to his body. "I've got nothing," he says. "That sounds just about right. I am a cock and Steve really is a nice guy who never deserved all the crap I gave him. That's the exact story."

"How could you let things go on the way they did, Daniel? That's the part that baffles me most, because - it was so obvious you were pulling the pin on a grenade. How could you not see it was gonna blow up?"

"Of course I -" The Dane's about to reply in a very heated up tone, but then he stops, abruptly, and just stares at Fernando for a whole two seconds before opening his mouth again. "You know what I just realized? Nobody ever heard my side of the story. Well, nobody except for _Xabi_ , from all people. I never got to tell anyone anything; you all just slammed the door on my face without sparing me a second thought."

"Do you feel wronged?" Fernando is sheer irony. "Have we been unfair to you?"

"That's not what I said," he replies, miffed. "I just said - the only person who ever gave me five seconds of his time to listen to my side was Xabi. And then you just go on assuming I was deliberately juggling you and Steve like I didn't give a fuck when that's not true."

"All right." Fernando shuffles around and takes a seat on his couch. "I'm listening now. What exactly do you think you were doing, if not _juggling_ two guys and lying to both of them about it?"

Dan huffs out a displeased breath, but realizes this is the best chance - more likely the only one as well - he'll ever get at being heard. He went on for months crying himself to sleep due to the fact he had been solemnly ignored by everyone - well, then. Here's his shot. Even if Fernando seems to have a very strong pre-conceived opinion and doesn't really seem all that interested in his version of the facts - it's as good as it will get, he supposes.

"You said you wished I'd told you straight away about Steve, just like _Stevie_ did." The Scouser's name comes out so drenched in venom he can actually taste the bitterness in his mouth. That motherfucker's shadow won't ever stop following Daniel around, it seems. "Stevie realized straight away that he wasn't in love with Steve anymore. And also that he might have never been to begin with. They were best friends who, for all the stupidest reasons in the world, decided to get together, except the only part who got emotionally involved there was Steve. Gerrard was just taking time before someone showed up. It was easy for him to see the differences between how he felt for Xabi and how he felt for Steve and didn't really give a fuck about going behind his back because he knew he'd rather be with Xabi anyway. You think it’s beautiful that he told Xabi, but he didn’t tell Steve straight away either. Everyone tells that fucking story, but they always forget to mention that part. I know that because _Steve_ told me. He was in love with Stevie back then. Just like I was in love with him until you showed up."

Fernando's eyes flicker away from his for a second as his mouth twists downwards - it's just for a second, but Daniel catches it. Every beautiful love story has a darker twist, only that part almost never gets told. Stevie and Xabi may be as fucking perfect as they want, but it doesn't change the fact that they hurt someone to get there - and now Daniel gets accused of not being as good as that shit. He's not as good as many things, but he's not about to take that sort of complaint lightly.

When the Spaniard doesn't say anything, the Dane takes it as a cue to move on.

"It wasn't easy for me, Fernando. That's the part you don't know. That whole thing was fucking killing me. I know I was wrong and that I was a coward - but, simply, I didn't know what to do. I'm fucked up. I had cheated on Steve before - and I'm not fucking proud of that, despite whatever shit you heard about me - but it had never been like it was with you. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I wanted to see you all the time, to text you and talk to you and fucking _paint_ you. I was scared of how I felt because it was - fuck, it _is_ the strongest thing I've ever felt. But then - there was Steve." He makes a pause, shakes his head lightly. "I had never questioned my feelings for him. I knew I loved him. I gave up on so many things just to be with him - even my art. Of course I never thought it was his fault, but I knew I wasn't entirely _happy_ with my life. Only he had always seemed to be one the bright spot I had in my days. I was afraid of breaking up with him - I thought I was gonna regret it. How the fuck was I supposed to ditch the guy I'd been with for four years for someone I had met for one day? I wasn't _juggling_ the two of you, I was trying to figure myself out - and to gather up the courage to do the right thing. 

"I was certain that if I told you about Steve, you would leave me. But at the same time I didn't want to hurt him. Hell, I barely even saw him, Fernando. I was staying at the studio for most of the time. If I was the heartless fucker you think I am, I would've just stayed with Steve like there was nothing going on, taking advantage of his beautiful apartment. But I didn't - I _couldn't_. I couldn't look him in the eye anymore. I knew if I did I would just tell him the truth and I wasn't even sure of what the truth really was. I just - I wanted to know what to say. To both of you. I wanted to tell you that I had a boyfriend when I met you and that I had cheated on him with you, but that I had broken up with him because I loved you and I wanted to be with you. That's what I wanted to tell you."

"The only way you could've told me that was if you had, in fact, left him," Fernando says, a subtle thread of uncertainly on his voice.

"I know. And I was going to. It sounds ridiculous to say that now..." Daniel smiles weakly at Fernando. "That night at Mercy, last time we went out together and when Steve - well, when he did that _thing_ with Sergio, I don't even know what the fuck that was. That was the night I was going to tell you about him. I spoke to Xabi earlier and he gave me an ultimatum. He said all those things you're thinking - that I'm a dickhead, that I don't care about anyone, that I'm selfish... And he was right. I was being all of that. But then I told him exactly what I'm telling you right now and he - he _believed _me. He knew I was in love with you and he told me to do the right thing. I was planning on taking you out, having a bit of fun first, just to make sure that, if those were to be our last moments together, then at least we'd have something good to remember. It was also supposed to be my last chance to decide - I thought... Well, if I'm gonna tell him, then I better be fucking sure about it. And I was sure the second I laid eyes on you. But then... Crazy, drunk Steve happened and I couldn't think about anything else, anymore. I got stuck in my own head, trying to understand what the hell happened and... Well, you know the rest.__

__"You met him right before I did, at the studio, and he was probably ten times angrier at me because of that. Our conversation didn't last for more than ten minutes - he did most of the talking, of course. Then it was over. And I didn't get the chance to say any of the things I wanted to say. I had everything rehearsed in my head, but... Nothing came out. He turned around and left my studio thinking that Stevie had been right about me all along - that I never loved him, that I was only interested on his money... You see, that's what I didn't want him to think. I can take Steve hating me, thinking that I was the greatest disappointment of his life - I don't like it, but I can take it, because at least that would be true. But the thing is... Steve - he seems like the kind of guy who's very sure of himself, always standing on top of the world like he owns every fucking thing, so confident and powerful... But he's not really like that. He's got really low self-esteem, although he never lets that show. That man is a fucking rock, and he keeps all his feelings to himself. All of them - the good ones and the bad ones. Sometimes he would ask me what the hell I was doing with someone like him like he wasn't good enough. And I didn't want him to think he wasn't good enough. I loved him. He had to know that, he had to know that he was more than good enough." Dan shrugs, sadly. "I never got the chance to tell him, though._ _

__"I broke him, Fernando. I broke him badly. And I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for that. In trying to figure out if there was any ways I could make the situation less fucked up than it was, I ended up worsening everything and all that I was trying to avoid happened at once. I lost you, I hurt Steve... It seems I can't really get away from that, even when I try to get it right and not just jump head-first into things like I do all the time. I'm a fucking shit magnet and I wish I could go back in time and un-do all of that. I would tell you straight away, just like _Stevie_ told Xabi, then I would go back home and pack my things and tell Steve that he deserved someone who could make him the happiest guy in the world and someone who would make him feel special, because I fucking obviously couldn't - I would just fucking follow my heart and do it. But I can't. I can't take any of it back and you have no idea how much that hurts, but... All I have is I'm sorry. There's nothing else."_ _

__Daniel's throat is dry and sore after talking for so long, his eyes prickling with all the tears he's fiercely battling back. He never even knew he had so much to say until he opened his mouth and the words just started rolling off of his tongue, leapfrogging one another, his mind reeling as he tried to order his thoughts. This is the first time he's actually spoken about it since the grenade - as Fernando so masterfully put it - blew up on his face. Daniel hadn't dared to open up to anyone. Those were all things that had crossed his mind at one point or another, but they were never this clear, never made so much sense - mostly Daniel just _felt_ them, in silence. And it does feel good to finally let it out. _ _

__This is how he feels, 24 hours a day, seven days a week._ _

__

__After talking so much, the silence feels awkward. Fernando's not saying anything, but Daniel's not sure he expects any sort of replies, anyway. There's a light frown on the Spaniard's face, his eyes are dark and hard and his lips are pressed into a firm line, but he doesn't look like he's about to start pouring his heart out. What is he going to say, anyway?_ _

__Steve was right, Dan thinks. This is all bloody pointless. He's not sure _what_ he was hoping when he decided to come to Fernando's flat, but whatever it was, it's hopeless - not to mention stupid. They're not going to shake hands and agree to anything, so what's the fucking point? It's just time wasted cutting the wounds back open before they were even healed to begin with._ _

__He should go. He has to get the hell out of there. Maybe search for a very high bridge and some bricks to tie around his ankle to make sure he'll be dragged straight to the bottom of river Mersey's muddy waters._ _

__"I have to..." he starts, but trails off and merely points to the door instead, indicating he'll let himself out._ _

__Before he can take another step, though, Fernando jumps to his feet and darts forwards like a man on a mission. Daniel flinches, turning his face away because he's certain there's going to be a fist flying towards him - in fact, he's surprised it hasn't happened yet. But what happens is much more intimidating than that._ _

__Fernando holds Daniel by his shoulders and yanks him forwards forcefully until their mouths collide. The Dane stays there immovable, eyes wide in shock as Fernando kisses him as though he's got only one minute to live. It's harsh and rushed and not at all pretty - there's too much teeth and Fernando's tongue is demanding and rough, his fingers are digging deep onto Daniel's skin. It takes Daniel's mind a moment to realize what's happening - and even longer for him to relax under the other man's touch. He closes his eyes and answers the kiss, although not at all in the same aggressive manner as Fernando's doing. Dan simply allows the other man to dictate the rhythm as he obliges, breathing him in and rejoicing in the warmth of Fernando's closeness._ _

__When he pulls away, Fernando bites on Daniel's lower lip as though he's angry at himself for having done that, but rests his forehead against Dan's while he tries to recompose, ragged breath and dormant fingers, probably. Daniel's breathless himself, and for a moment he doesn't dare to open his eyes - he just wants this to last forever._ _

__When he does, Fernando's staring back at him._ _

__"I don't know why," Fernando says, like he's reading the question on Daniel's mind._ _

__"It's ok," he answers._ _

__"You..." The Spaniard tries again, their half-sentences loaded with all the things he wasn't saying before. "Do you know how much you could've cost me?" Dan doesn't dare replying to that. "My whole life is here. My career. Everything I've always dreamed of, that I spent my whole life working for - it's all here, and in Xabi's hands. You almost ruined it for me. I could've lost everything."_ _

__"I know."_ _

__"I trusted you."_ _

__"I know."_ _

__"You betrayed me."_ _

__"I know."_ _

__"And then you didn't even - you stopped calling. You didn't show up anymore."_ _

__"I thought that was what you wanted me to do."_ _

__"I thought so too." Fernando pauses, wets his own lips with the tip of his tongue and nearly touches Daniel again with it. "I thought I was fine. I kept telling myself that I was. When I saw you at the club, I thought - I thought I was fine. But I had this quake at the pit of my stomach and I just wanted to - _kiss_ you or _punch_ you, I wasn't sure which. Maybe both. I tried hard not to let it transpire, though."_ _

__"It certainly didn't," Daniel says, slightly stunned to hear that._ _

__"I stayed there all day, every day, thinking that I didn't want to see you, but hoping that you would come to me. That you would say all the right things and have a perfect excuse for fucking up so hard."_ _

__"I..." Daniel starts, stops, then says, "I'm sorry."_ _

__"I can't risk it, Daniel. I can't risk losing everything."_ _

__Dan swallows down hard, trying to ignore the pang shooting straight to his heart at that._ _

__"Everyone tells me that I shouldn't - that you're not worth it. They say you're going to screw up, like you always do. That you're just going to hurt me."_ _

__The Dane lets out a wan laugh. "They're probably right."_ _

__"So why can't I just..." Fernando breaks off. Daniel knows exactly what he's trying to say, though._ _

__"... I don't know," he answers, and that's as much as he can take not kissing Fernando again._ _

__They do it properly this time, like they've been missing each other insanely. Daniel can barely contain himself in his own body from so much joy. There's a hint of despair there as well, perhaps more than a little poignancy, but he's carefully storing that on the back of his head, making sure to lock it in the corner of his mind reserved for all the unattended things. At the forefront right now there's only passion and yearning and how much he fucking wants all this._ _

__Fernando kisses back with the same intensity. He fists Dan's shirt and starts pulling him towards the couch, their lips never parting as they do so, as they breathe heavily against each other's mouths. Dan loves the smell of him, the taste of him, that beautiful sensation of being too close to the sun when he's around Fernando. There's such a huge sense of familiarity in his chest and his entire body feels light in a way that it hasn't in months._ _

__He doesn't necessarily mean for them to do anything more than that - he'd be absolutely fine with just holding Fernando like he hadn't screwed up yet. But then Fernando slips his hands underneath his shirt and, well. Daniel wasn't gonna stop him either._ _

__They fuck on the couch, not even bothering with removing all their clothes, just the extremely necessary bits. They hadn't done it there yet, Daniel finds it in him to notice this amongst the heap of things rushing through as Fernando thrusts into him. Unlike their kissing, the sex is slow and relaxed, like neither of them wants to cut their time together any shorter than it has to be, like they're savoring every fraction of every second. Daniel is, anyway. He presses his body back against Fernando's, says his name as he pants and moans, meeting him back thrust by thrust._ _

__He wants to look at Fernando, to see what pleasure and lust and confusion, probably, are doing to his face, hoping to find some other sort of feeling in there as well – something kinder, sweeter, like love. But this is good enough for now. The Spaniard doesn't say anything, doesn't call his name, just unintelligible noises, at times pure passion, at times slightly angrier. But he does kiss the back of Dan's neck and then bites his shoulder like he's trying very hard to keep his mouth shut._ _

__Afterwards, they lie together on the couch, sticky with come and sweat, pressed up against each other because there's simply not enough space. Daniel manages to lay half on top of Fernando, his head resting against the other man's chest as they slowly regain their breaths. The sound of Fernando's heartbeat, going from erratic to rhythmic, appeasing the turmoil inside._ _

__"Are we..." he starts, his voice thick with exhaustion. "This... What does it mean?"_ _

__Fernando takes a moment to answer. "I don't know." He sounds just as worn out as Dan does, but his voice is calm and gentle, not dismissive._ _

__They lapse back into silence again and Daniel thinks it is ok not to talk about it now. They might as well just appreciate the little moment before they absolutely have to go back to reality, where they're screwed up, perhaps beyond repair. Even if Fernando just tells him to go and not come back - it won't be as bad as the first time. Nothing can be as bad as being treated like a nobody and completely ignored, expelled from someone's life without a single word. At least they'll have had this. A last moment of tenderness._ _

__The idea that this might be goodbye doesn't sit well with him, though. He understands and he knows he'll just have to accept it, but he doesn't have to _like_ it. Even now it makes Dan restless. _ _

__"You're going to hurt me," Fernando says, mindlessly, like an afterthought, almost as though he had been thinking loudly._ _

__Instinctively, Daniel presses himself closer to the other man. "I don't know," he answers. "I might. Even if I don't want to." That, Daniel's learned, perhaps belatedly, is a promise he can never make. He promised Steve he'd never hurt him - _again_ and _again_ and _again_ \- and look where they ended up._ _

__"This is just stupid," Fernando continues, probably not even paying full attention to what he just said. "Why would we even bother if we know it's not going to be worth it?"_ _

__"You don't know that."_ _

__"Tell me about how you made it work out with Steve."_ _

__Daniel's face contorts slightly at that because, fuck - it stings._ _

__The Dane props himself up on one elbow to look down at Fernando - God, he's gorgeous... There's a lock of sweaty brown hair matted down to his forehead, his cheeks are still flushed and his eyes sparkle from the afterglow - even though they burn with something else too, something Daniel can't quite put his finger on. Fernando looks confused. That's comprehensible, he guesses. He's very confused himself, as to what exactly what happened here means. Except he knows what he _wants_ it to mean; Fernando seems to be struggling with that bit a little more, to put it simply._ _

__"It didn't work out with Steve, but I never said it wasn't worth it," he replies, staring at Fernando's parted lips instead of his eyes, desperately wanting to lean over and kiss him again. It's nut-driving, wanting something so much and not knowing whether he can have it._ _

__"I can't risk it, Daniel. I can't have you pulling me apart like this every fucking time." It sounds too much like a plea._ _

__"I don't want to pull you apart." He traces a finger down Fernando's chest. "I want you whole. And I want you happy. Even if that means -" he breaks off, swallows down. "Even if that means you won't be with me. If it's what you want. I'll respect your decision. After everything, it's the least I can do."_ _

__"If you want to respect my decision so much, then why did you come here at all? You thought I didn't want to see you and that I was leaving - why were you trying to stop me?"_ _

__Dan's eyes follow the path of his hand, down Fernando's stomach and all the way to his thigh and knees and then back up, his fingertips tracing his entire body like a blind man learning the face of a new friend._ _

__"Because I didn't think it was fair for you to leave. Because I thought it was my fault and I didn't want to - I wanted you to know that I'd stay away and let you live your life. That it was Martin's idea to drag me down to Mercy without mentioning that you'd be there. Or maybe... Maybe not. Maybe I just wanted a last chance of telling you how I feel. I don't know what I meant by all that, I just - I freaked out when he told me you were leaving." He looks back at Fernando's eyes when his finger reaches the other man's cheekbones and jawline. "I've been freaking out a little bit more every day since I... Since you left."_ _

__"Are you sure that's because of me? Not because of him?"_ _

__Daniel shakes his head slowly. "You've had me from the first second. I was lost the moment I laid eyes on you." He never believed in that sort of thing before, but he guesses it's true after all. Steve never stood a chance. Even if Daniel had never seen Fernando again after that first night, or even if he had turned around and walked away before they even met - it would be lost all the same. That memory of him would be seared onto Daniel's mind and he would never be able to feel the same way about Steve. It's cruel, but it's true. He gets that now. It was a fight he never had any chance of winning, trying to reign himself in regarding Fernando and go back to being Steve's loyal, loving boyfriend. They wouldn't have lasted for much longer anyway - or if they had, it would've been dragged and loveless and poisonous._ _

__This is in no way a manner of justifying his misbehaviors - it's just a fact. Steve would've ended up hating him one way or another because he had, in spite of everything, fallen in love with someone else._ _

__"I love you." It's not even the first time he's saying it, but it is the first like this - completely out in the open, naked and liberated from any conditions. Pure and simple._ _

__Fernando lifts one hand and touches the side of Dan's face. He shifts his head just enough to place a kiss to the other man's soft palm._ _

__"I love you too."_ _

__He's not sure whether he should be crying or laughing or both. This may just be the most wonderful and the most harrowing thing to have ever happened to him at the same time._ _

__After a beat, Fernando says, "Stay," around a sigh, like he's letting go of something - of his fears or uncertainties or everything at once._ _

__"Are you sure?"_ _

__Fernando smiles softly at him - completely devoid of any pain or sadness. He nods. "I'm sure."_ _

__Dan lets out a breath that sounds way too much like a sob. He takes hold of Fernando's hands and places one kiss on each of his knuckles, mesmerized by the sight of the other man's lazy grin, staring up at him._ _

__He knows he can't promise not to screw up, but this is what he can promise: Daniel can promise to be a better person. A better man, a better friend, a better lover. He never, _ever_ wants to have the feeling of having crushed someone's heart with his bare hands. Maybe he'll hurt Fernando, maybe they won't work out in the end - maybe this will pass. But Daniel's not going to be that person anymore. _ _

__It's not much and it's probably a lot less than Fernando deserves, but he's done making vows he won't be able to sustain. This is what he is, it's everything he is; Daniel has stripped his soul bare before Fernando, no bullshit whatsoever. He doesn't think he's ever been this honest with anyone in his life._ _

__He doesn't know what happens next, where they go from here. All he knows is this: he belongs to Fernando. To take or to leave. But his nonetheless._ _

__

__x-x-x_ _

__

__All in all, he's doing ok, Finns reflects as he pours coffee for two. A 6 out of 10, at least. Ish._ _

__He followed Stevie's instructions (which has to be a first; since when does Stevie know anything about anything better than he does?), kept his cool (on the outside, anyway), finished dessert, had another glass of wine and then headed home with Harry. That part went very smoothly and Finns managed to successfully hide the vertiginous shudder at the pit of his stomach._ _

__When they reached the door, Finns almost surrendered himself to another panic attack, but stopped just short of it. Initially, his idea was to come up with some sort of excuse to ditch Harry gracefully, which he figured he would've had enough time to elaborate by this point, but guess what? His brain does blank out when he gets under this sort of pressure; Stephen Finnan is, after all, just another human being._ _

___'I had a wonderful night, but unfortunately I have to work really early tomorrow'_ or _'I have a plane to catch in under three hours - did I mention I'm moving to Idaho?'_ or whatever. Just say something and then finish it with good night before Harry gets a chance to speak._ _

__But Harry didn't even have to say anything. How pathetic is that? It's only their first date and Finns already can't find it in him to upset Harry. It's the strangest thing, feeling himself sinking into the depths of despair at the same time he wants so badly to be nice and cool and interesting because, Jesus, he just wants Harry to _like_ him. What kind of sign will he be sending out if he ditches the guy on their first date?_ _

__Not even Daniel was like that. Finns kicked Daniel's ass out of this building and threatened to call the police at least a dozen times before finally surrendering to his pretty little freckled face. What's wrong with him now?_ _

__Maybe sex deprivation is reverting him back to his teen years, when he had pimples and lips that were simply too large for his bony face and thought that if he didn't do his absolute best at all times, nobody would ever like him and he would end up old and alone. Now he kind of still thinks there's a large chance he might end up old and alone, but Finns' skin has grown thick over the years and usually he just acts like he's above everything and everyone, even when he couldn't feel further away from that (which is most of the time, actually)._ _

__But now... Now he's eager to please again. He's nervous like he hasn't been since he was 16 for first dates and he's constantly at loss for words, which is a disaster in itself._ _

__Harry looked so expectant when they stopped by his building entrance, so radiant and enthusiastic and _gorgeous_ that Finns simply muted. And then, after a predictably long and awkward pause, invited him upstairs for an absolutely crimeless coffee._ _

__Harry behaved like a gentleman, Finns has to give him that. Was it not for his _issue_ , Finns would've cornered him on the elevator and kicked-off preliminaries right there and then. Harry was not aware that there was anything intrinsically wrong with that and yet simply moved on with conversation, keeping his hands entirely to himself. Stephen is still divided on how exactly to feel about that; half of him was just desperately hoping that Harry would push him up against the wall and get him hot and hard by sheer pressure, while the other half kept on hysterically screaming in his head that this was all a very big mistake and _what the fuck are you thinking_?_ _

__If he doesn't end up this night back in the deepest pits of darkness or insane, Finns will pop a champagne._ _

__Harry is sitting by his kitchen counter, sipping from his coffee. The subject, whatever it was they were discussing, has died out for a while. They're staring at each other - Harry more so than Finns, whose eyes keep on flickering away from the other man, nervously - when Harry leaves his mug on the counter, stands up and walks around. He stops a few inches away from Finns, their hands almost touching where they're resting over the counter._ _

__"Can I..." Harry starts, looking down at his fingers literally a millimeter away from touching Finns'. The Irishman has to swallow down, hard, because he can feel Harry's warm breath as he opens his mouth, right against his skin. _It's so close_. "Can I do something I've been dying to do all night?" he asks, eyes fixed on Finns' now in such a manner that it's impossible to break contact._ _

__Finns is speechless for long seconds, a lot more than what would be socially acceptable for a situation like this, apparently, because Harry's too-sexy-for-my-shirt sort of face has morphed into an are-you-going-to-leave-me-hanging-here-seriously one, his eyebrows all the way up to his hairline._ _

__Finns is equal parts desperate and sorry._ _

__"I, uh... Ok," he mumbles, just because._ _

__Harry smiles._ _

__It's all very fast; one moment Harry is kissing him, cupping his face between his hands and pushing him against the counter for better leverage and they seem to be doing fine - although Finns is pretty sure Harry's the only one doing the kissing there, he's not really kissing back, or even properly opening his mouth either, but mouths are touching and that's the most erotic Finns has gotten around anyone in almost three months now; the next... Well, the next is a disaster, really, because the next moment marks the pitiful end of a very promising night._ _

__Finns freaks out and pushes Harry away, struggling out of his reach like he's been stung by a bee. "I'm sorry," he says, covering his eyes with his palms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_ _

__"Are you ok?" Harry sounds so completely lost Finns just wants to sit down and cry. That is one very fine lad he's throwing away here because he's a wanker. Or not a wanker, at the present moment, if that makes more sense._ _

__"Yes. No. Kind of. No. I don't know." He still can't remove his hands from his face. He doesn't want to see Harry's disappointment._ _

__"Did I do something wrong?"_ _

__"No. No, no, no," Finns rushes to add, shaking his head with vehemence. "You haven't done anything wrong. You've done everything right. Absolutely right. The problem is..." He can't really say what he's about to say while still covering his face, can he? Finns lets his arms down and visibly deflates, shoulders slumping as he sighs ruefully. "I'm the one who's wrong, Harry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have invited you up here, I'm not... I can't do this."_ _

__"Oh," Harry says, nodding like he gets it, like he understands, but a second later his brow creases into a baffled frown. "Is there someone else?"_ _

__Finns lets out a tiny laugh at that. Harry would too, if he knew the whole story. "No. There's no one else."_ _

__"Didn't you want to go out with me, then?"_ _

__"I did. I do. I had a wonderful night. It's... this," he motions his hands vaguely between the two of them. "I'm not ready to... Do this part."_ _

__"The sex, you mean?"_ _

__Finns just nods, his nerves still positively melting away._ _

__"I see." Harry pauses, thoughtfully. "Is that with me, specifically, or...?"_ _

__"You're the only person who's made me want to even go out on a date again. It's not you. I feel awful because I had a great time and now you're probably thinking I'm the worst date you've ever had and I really didn't mean to ruin everything, but I - I can't. I'm sorry. I can't do this tonight."_ _

__He is expecting Harry to pick up his jacket and storm out of his flat, totally offended, or maybe for something on the lines of 'Why did you even make me come all this way just to turn me down, you dumbfuck?' and it would be fine, really, because Finns can understand that sort of frustration - they're both grown-ups, there's no such thing as 'I'm not ready' anymore. Or at least there shouldn't be. They're at that age that if you invite someone over to yours after dinner, it means one thing and one thing only, and that thing is certainly not a cup of coffee._ _

__It would still feel like a slap to the face, though. He really wanted to make a good impression and be a good first date and make Harry want to see him again because he _likes_ this guy. And Finns actually _liking_ someone as naturally as this hasn't happened since, well, Stevie, some good ten or more years ago._ _

__Unfortunately, though, Harry happened to show up in the most fucked up moment of his life._ _

__And it's all Stevie's fault for making him come this far and humiliate himself further._ _

__Instead of doing all those horrible things Finns was expecting, though, Harry grins at him, sighs, and then says, "Ok." Just like that._ _

__Finns blinks at him. "Ok?"_ _

__"Yeah. All right."_ _

__"You.. what?"_ _

__"You said you don't want to take things further, I'm saying ok. Fine. I respect that." He stops. "Why, is that the wrong answer?"_ _

__"No, it's - I didn't see that one coming. I thought you'd want to punch me."_ _

__"That's nonsense. Why would I want to punch you?"_ _

__"Because I led you on?"_ _

__"You offered me coffee," Harry shrugs. Finns cocks him an eyebrow. "All right, I know coffee is usually code for something else. But if you're not ok with it, then you're not. I know what you've been through, recently, and I wouldn't want to talk about it because it might get a bit more professional than the night deserves, but I know it's not easy. I get it. I _have_ to get it. If I don't, then I'm a fraud at what I do. So it's fine."_ _

__If he had a ring, Finns would drop down to one knee and propose right now._ _

__"So you don't hate me?"_ _

__"Of course not. I had a brilliant night, Stephen. And by the way, it was _far_ from the worst date I've ever had. You have no idea."_ _

__It is kind of surreal that he reacts this nicely, but it still doesn't appease the churning away in Finns' stomach. He's pretty sure this is still the last time he and Harry will see each other. The other man will likely, from now on, avoid his phone calls and make up excuses until Finns decides simply not to call anymore. He's a psychiatrist, dealing with freaks and weirdos and fucked up people all day, every day; why would he want to bring one into his personal life? No one would._ _

__It's a shame, really. More than a shame. It's a real pity. For Finns, obviously. Not so much for Harry._ _

__Finns walks him to the door, repeating a million 'I'm sorrys' on the way just to make sure._ _

__Harry leans forward and kisses him on the cheek, exactly the same way he had the night he drove Finns home from the hospital - quick and gentle, no other intention there whatsoever._ _

__Finns seriously wants to cry. There should be _all_ sorts of intentions there._ _

__"Good night," Harry says._ _

__It all happens in slow motion: Harry smiling at him, touching his shoulder as he steps out, turning his back as he makes for the elevator._ _

__Finns watches him, rooted to his spot, absolutely frozen, until suddenly the world starts spinning again too fast to catch up, and Finns finds himself completely overtaken by an indescribable need to reach out and pull that man back._ _

__He launches forward, grabs Harry's arm and yanks him back to the apartment. Harry almost trips over and has to lean against Finns, who, thankfully, manages to keep both of them from falling, otherwise it would just all get very ridiculous - two men tumbling down, falling one over the other, hitting things and getting hurt and looking stupid. The mood would be ruined._ _

__"What are -" His question is muffled by Finns' mouth mashed hard and hot against his, and soon enough the Australian gives into the kiss._ _

__Finns places both his palms on Harry's chest and pushes him back against the wall. They kiss like there's absolutely nothing else they'd rather be doing than this, like they were both cut out of this moment and have the rest of their lives to do it; languid and thorough and deep and like this is something they've been harboring for much longer than their bodies should've had to endure._ _

__Finns has got no idea how long they stay like that, just pressed up one against the other and _kissing_. They suck on each other's tongues, exploring, and when Harry catches his lip between his teeth, biting him, Finns lets out a sharp breath and a soft purring sound, absolutely delighted. _ _

__When they finally pull away, both slightly breathless, Finns feels his lips burning and imagines they must look just as red and swollen as Harry's right this moment. The other man has a gleam in his eyes, fixed on his mouth, and Finns can almost read his thoughts. God gave him those fat lips for a reason and all he wants to do right now is use them to suck Harry off._ _

__And that thought brings back the terrifying cold to the pit of his stomach as Finns is reminded of the fact that he _can't_._ _

__"Sorry about that," he says. "I've been dying to do it all night too, to be honest."_ _

__Harry chuckles. "It was my pleasure."_ _

__Finns can already feel himself getting turned on in his head. But he cannot guarantee that it will do anything downstairs, so, unwittingly, he takes a step back and cuts off contact, bemoaning moving away from Harry's personal space._ _

__"I'm sorry," he repeats, in a more serious tone now._ _

__"You don't have to be sorry," Harry says. "I really did have a lovely evening, I wasn't just saying it."_ _

__"Yeah, well. Not entirely."_ _

__Harry scratches the back of his neck, takes a deep breath, still a little unbalanced, maybe, from being caught off-guard. He doesn't look like the sort of man who gets caught off-guard very often. Finns is a little proud of himself._ _

__"I'm not going to lie to you and say that I didn't _think_ \- well, you invited me in, I thought we would... You know. And I'm not going to say I wasn't looking forward to it either, because that would be an even more blatant lie. But I didn't come here because I want - pardon my language - a fuck. I could get that anywhere else."_ _

__"Well, that makes it better, then."_ _

__"I'm not going after one when I leave here either."_ _

__"Oh, please. Don't hold back on my behalf."_ _

__"Stephen -"_ _

__"I mean it."_ _

__"So do I."_ _

__They stop talking just then because they run out of things to say. Finns reckons this is the point where he should shut door and say he's changed his mind, that Harry can stay, if he still wants to. He should take his hand, lead him to the bedroom and push him down onto a bed that hasn't seen a body that isn't Finns' since Daniel stopped sleeping at home, weeks before they actually broke up. Finns is suddenly wondering how his bed is going to react to a new, strange figure - and of course his bed is just a bed and it won't react to anything, it's really himself he's thinking about here._ _

__He has grown unaccustomed to people other than Daniel in his bedroom - in his _life_. It's been over four years since he's allowed anyone else in. Sometimes he still finds himself shifting around in his sleep and hoping to bump into another warm body next to his. He wakes up and stretches out his arms and still gets that momentary panic upon finding the other side of the bed perfectly made and cold. It's not on automatic yet, Daniel's absence._ _

__This is when it finally dawns in him - it's not his (hopefully) temporary impotence what's worrying him. His inability to have an erection at the age of 35 is not the cause of his anxiety and nervousness and insecurities - it's the consequence._ _

__The undeniable simple truth is this: Stephen Finnan is simply not ready to move on._ _

__There are natural stages of grief a person should allow herself to experience when a long-term relationship ends. It's a very long chunk of his life that got cut off there. He had plans and hopes and expectations for a future with Daniel. Finns grew used to involving Daniel in absolutely everything - there was no more him with that other person. They had a _life_ together; it wasn't just a quick fling, or an infatuation. All of that was interrupted, finished, left a blown up empty hole where it used to be before, and starting over isn't easy. It shouldn't be._ _

__He didn't let himself feel anything, though. Finns worked hard to convince himself that he was _fine_ \- Daniel cheated on him, therefore there was nothing else left there; it's no use crying over spilt milk. He couldn't have been more wrong._ _

__He's not done yet being depressed, or sad, or angry, simply because he never even engaged in any of those feelings. He repressed all of it, bottled it all up inside and hoped for the best. What he got were four months of a very fucked up, conflicted head that couldn't even send a fucking turn-on signal down to his dick._ _

__The mere thought of getting close to another person terrified Finns to the point of panic, it still does; it sends off alarm bells ringing in his head as a reminder of how bad and hurtful things can get if he lets his guard down._ _

__He's pretty sure this all started with the extreme embarrassment of _That One Night At The Woods_. It caused some sort of trauma in him. Finns fears that feeling too much might risk having that monster that turned him into a pathetic and sodden figure with shaved head come out again. To this day he has zero idea of what exactly triggered that undignified, irresponsible and totally immature reaction; all he knows is he hates it. With all his being. _ _

__Finns always thought of himself as liable and reasonable, in control of every aspect of his own life, touching on stubbornness at times. The second his inner compass started pointing to a different north, however, he simply didn't know how to handle anything anymore. And that... That is scary._ _

__It's not from Daniel he hasn't moved on yet. Or it is, too, but not only. He needs to learn how to deal with his own sense of shame and failure. With his insecurities and the fear of being alone, of not being loved, of not being _good enough_._ _

__How will he ever be with another person, especially one as nice as Harry, if he can't even live with himself at the moment?_ _

__"I think you deserved to have a better ending to your night than this," he says, a wan and apologetic smile gracing his lips._ _

__Harry studies him for a moment. "We have time," he says, after a beat. "I'm in no rush."_ _

__"Does that mean this won't be our last date?"_ _

__"Not unless you want it to be."_ _

__"I don't want it to be," Finns answers, not missing a beat._ _

__Harry laughs softly, like he finds the nerve-wrecking effect he has on Finns somehow endearing, and leans forward again to plant a quick kiss on his lips. "Then it won't be," he says. "Good night, Stephen."_ _

__When Harry leaves, Finns drops down on his bed and beats himself up a little thinking that he could've had someone there with him, instead of simply adding another lonely night to his account. He stares at the ceiling, mind completely blank, just replaying the last couple of hours' events over and over. He thinks of Harry chatting nonsense at the restaurant and making him laugh, thinks about the way he smiled when they met, how it made every hair on Finns' body stand to attention, the sheer electricity of it._ _

__Finns remembers the taste of coffee on Harry's tongue and the scent on his neck and how his hands felt around his waist - not really doing anything, just resting there, polite and patient - and he lets out a shuddering breath._ _

__Almost involuntarily, his hand begins to slowly move towards his crotch. Finns fidgets in his place a little as he feels a familiar but long forgotten sort of discomfort inside his trousers. He palms himself, and it sends a jolt right up his spine, making him purr a little, arch his back as he bites on his lower lip. Undoing his belt and zipper, Finns slides his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around his cock. He can't really count how many times he's done that to no avail in the past months - until eventually giving up because there's only so much humiliation he can take. Even his own body had decided to betray him. That was simply too much to bare._ _

__Now, though, it's giving signals that perhaps the strike is over. Maybe the lingering butterflies in his stomach from the kiss shared with Harry are making his brain confused enough to shut down all the crap and just focus on the good feelings - the _great_ feelings. The heat and the friction as his hand goes up and down, up and down... Stopping a little at the base, then back up again. Slow and steady and firm._ _

__Finns lets out a little moan - he's imagining Harry there, on top of him or underneath him, writhing and panting and moaning in tune with him in those beautiful Australian vowels of his. Finns throws his head back and comes long and hard._ _

__It's more than just a release of bodily fluids, it's... Freedom. He can almost hear the clinking sound of the shackles falling off. There's no bitter taste in his mouth, it's all Harry's coffee-flavored kiss; there's no lingering images of Daniel on this same bed, it's just Harry and his rich laughter filling up the air and finding shelter right inside of Finns' chest._ _

__It's just him, Stephen, rejoicing in this private moment of perfect completeness._ _

__It's not exactly fine yet, but Finns can almost see the shades of color starting to paint back the black-and-white canvas that was left of his life. Things are on the rise, he thinks, and that's not just a metaphor for his dick._ _

__Sleep comes not long after and sweeps him away. Tomorrow is definitely going to be a much better day._ _

__

___Fin_._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! Let me know what you think! I've been writing these characters for so long it's weird to part with them. I feel like they're part of me, a little bit.
> 
> I have this epilogue half-way done, sort of, but I'm not sure about it yet. I felt like maybe this story got a little too much towards the end? I don't know if anyone wants to read yet more of this! Let me know if you'd be interested or what.


	22. Epilogue - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are y'all doing? It's been a while! I've been working on these epilogue chapters for ages... I gave up on posting it at some point and was just going to leave it the way it was, but what the heck, right? 
> 
> It's important to say that this Epilogue is not really like the one in **Elephant Gun**. With that story, I felt that it really needed a better finale, whereas with **D &C** it's really only a matter of writing more about these characters. I'm in no way trying to fix the finale or whatever. These are just scenes in the characters' futures. There's more than just this chapter, of course. It's just that it became too long, so I had to split.
> 
> Also, I have no idea how the university system really works in the UK. I did some reading on the matter and tried to figure it out, but it's just way too different from what I'm used to, so whatever. If it's too dumb, please please try to ignore it as best as you can. :/
> 
> As always, this has not been beta'ed and English is not my first language. There are lots and lots of mistakes there. It's also almost four in the morning right now, so there's that.
> 
> If you like this or if you'd like to read the rest of it, please let me know. Any feedback is welcome. I've been really discouraged about writing lately, which is why I haven't updated anything in a while. I'm trying to find my mojo, but... Well. Let's see if some encouragement helps. Cheers!

**Six months later...**

"So who was the biggest cock you've ever been with?"

It's Steven and Stephen, completely oblivious to how dirty the floor is and how expensive their clothes are, back against the ledge of the rooftop, staring mindlessly at the night sky, each nursing a beer. If they squint real hard, they can almost see some stars. It's a nearly hot summer night, as hot as it's possible to get in Liverpool in mid-July, their sleeves are rolled up to their elbows and the ties are hanging loosely around their necks. 

Finns never came up here in all the one billion years he's worked at this firm. He's too busy to explore the building beyond the floors that interest him. Stevie comes up often, it seems, which is strange, considering Finns didn't know that and he knows _everything_. Tonight, Stevie decided to drag him up as well, finally sharing the secret spot where he goes to when he wants to think or be alone. After a little moment of shock upon the realization that, after all these years, there are still things about his best friend he doesn't know, Finns is quite pleased. It's a nice place, indeed. He might even start coming up here on his own, if he can make the time. Stevie is a lot better at _making time_ for random things like watching the sun set from a rooftop than he's ever been.

It is a Saturday and neither of them should be at the office, but they had to wrap up a contract before Monday, or _else_. They never clarify what _else_ stands for on their apocalyptic e-mails and Finns absolutely _hates_ feeling like he's being threatened, but there are still highly ranked people in the firm with the actual power of writing _or else_ and not finishing the sentence to him. And anyway, Harry's on shift tonight, so Finns doesn't really mind that much. Not like he's missing anything more interesting elsewhere. He and Stevie work well together and with the office in peaceful quietness, things proceeded smoothly and fast. They were finished before dinner time.

That was when Stevie produced a six pack (or two - why the hell did he have beer hidden in his office?) and an invitation to the rooftop. Now here they are.

Warm summer nights and beer bring back the memories of old days, and so the juvenile conversation flows easily on that rooftop. It's mostly dick they're talking about, obviously. Finns can't even remember why they got into that subject, but they did, and Stevie started making random questions that, under normal circumstances, Finns wouldn't bother answering because he never hears the end of anything kinky he tells Stevie. His friend is still a 14 year-old at heart. Tonight, however, for whatever reason (probably the combination of heat and booze), he's feeling a little 14 himself.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that."

Stevie gives him a side-glance. "I mean, who was the proud owner of the biggest reproductive organ you've ever touched?"

Finns smiles. He knew exactly what Stevie meant, he just wanted some time to consider whether he wanted to answer that or not. "In what way? The longest or the thickest?" he asks.

"Both," Stevie shrugs. "On average, taking both into consideration."

Finns takes a swig from his bottle, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he thinks back on all his bed partners. There are so many he's afraid he might be missing some of them. Certainly a few have faded into oblivion over the years. Anyone who meets him nowadays would never guess the devil Stephen was in his younger years. Between Finns and Stevie, he was certainly the worst of the two. 

"John Terry," he declares with certainty after a moment. Early university days, med student. John Terry is definitely amongst the ones who won't be forgotten.

Stevie squeaks excitedly next to him. "Mine too!" he exclaims.

"You did John Terry?"

"Of course! That guy's junk was _epic_. His reputation preceded him; of course I had to check it out."

A tiny little smile spreads across Finns' lips as his mind reels back to warm nights like this one spent in his dorm room. "He was very, _very_ gifted."

"I remember I almost gagged the first time I went down on him."

"Took me a few times to get used to it, too. I mean, it was... _Great_. But certainly overwhelming at first."

"How many times did you go out with him?"

"I don't know. Three or four, maybe," he says. There might have been more. But again, booze and drugs were high back in the day and John not only had a fantastic junk, but he also had access to lots of hallucinogens from the labs. Two birds with one stone.

"I think we fucked six times, maybe." Stevie stops, considering what he just said. "No more than ten, for sure. Or maybe just... Twelve. Tops. Fifteen."

Finns arches his eyebrows at his friend. "That lasted for a while."

"He was accessible."

"That's certainly one way to put it." Stevie smiles, drinks from his own bottle, but doesn't comment. "Were you serious?"

"Nah! It was just sex. He was a nice lad and all, but we didn't have that sort of chemistry. I could never date a bloke who supports Chelsea. We'd kill each other."

"There would be make up sex, though."

"Not worth it."

"Was that why you stopped seeing him?"

"It gets boring after a while, doesn't it? I mean, sex was good, but there was more good sex to be had elsewhere. I wanted to diversify. Plus, he started seeing Lamps and I think they got serious shortly after."

"Oh yeah. I remember that. Frank Lampard, wasn't it?" Stevie nods. "We played football together for a while. I sucked him off in the locker room once."

Stevie snorts. "You were such a slut."

"Not arguing against that," Finns says, sipping from his bottle again and smiling. 

His college days were surely very entertaining. Finns went to boarding schools almost his entire life, so going away to university and being far from his family wasn't completely novelty, but the feel was certainly different. Boarding school was strict and catholic and had priests all over the fucking place - not that it ever stopped him and his friends from breaking the rules and doing all sorts of naughty stuff, of course. Parents think they're sending their boys to be trained as little chaste angels under the words of the Lord when in reality they're being sent to a dick fest in amidst their most hormonal phases. Even straight boys had _experiences_. But sex was always rushed and quiet and hidden. They enjoyed the adrenalin and the orgasm more than they appreciated the act itself, which is something Finns only came to understand a long time afterwards. University was a different story. There was no one there to control where he was and who he was with and what he was doing. If he wanted to spend the whole night up fucking, he could. And Finns certainly did, several times. There were a few awesome gay pubs and some clubs that hosted LGBT nights every week in town, so it was easy to find a company or two (or three, one time) for the night. Being gay wasn't a clandestine thing, he wasn't made to feel like he'd burn in hell for wanting what (or who) he wanted and being who he was. 

You'd think he was just one of those crazy crackheads in his early twenties, but the truth is that he had method even in his chaos. Finns made sure to leave nothing for the imagination during his university years because that was part of a plan. Even the losers he surely wouldn't do again nowadays enhanced his experience. If enjoying life to the fullest while he could meant sucking cocks indiscriminately and having all the sex in the world whilst high and still, somehow, managing to keep A grades - then so be it. Call him a slut, see if he cares. Finns kept enough control over things as to never let the partying affect the really important things (not too much, anyway). As soon as he graduated, though, everything changed; all he did was work his ass off to build a career. Finns had a very clear goal of where he wanted to go as a lawyer and, being an anal motherfucker as he was, he made sure his ambitions were at the top of his priorities. Once he gets set upon something, he doesn't quit easily. Which isn't always a good thing - Daniel, to name one example.

To this day, he regrets absolutely nothing. He went crazy when he could, he worked hard when he had to, and now, soon to turn 36, he makes buckets of money as a successful head of department, possibly on the way to VP in a few more years, whilst _still_ having good sex. All things considered, life hasn't been so bad to Stephen Finnan, with the exception of a couple of nasty bumps here and there.

Still, there was at least one person who savored a better uni life than him, for sure.

"Nobody saw more action on that campus than John Terry," Finns muses.

"With that dick, I'd expect nothing less," Stevie replies.

Silently, Finns agrees by nodding his head, although inwardly feeling a little resentful. Terry was likely the only non-straight person in the whole bloody city offering any competition to Finns for the title of Greatest Cambridge Slut.

"He wasn't that good, though, was he?" Finns says after a while. "I mean... It was never _bad_. It was impossible not to hit something right with all that equipment. But it was like... He wasn't even trying that hard. I always felt he was wasting his true potential for greatness."

"I know what you mean," Stevie agrees. "He had this really great equipment, but he didn't know how to operate it. Just stuck it in and out and let the other person do the work."

"Exactly. He wasn't even the greatest fuck I had while in Cambridge."

"I'll be very offended if that wasn't me."

Finns lets out a wholehearted laughter and bumps his shoulder against Stevie's. "I'll say it was you if you say I was yours."

"In Cambridge? Definitely you," Stevie says, clinking their bottles together. "We wouldn't have settled for each other if we weren't thoroughly satisfied with the sex. We were shallow whores back then."

"Yes, but _thoroughly satisfying_ doesn't always mean the best. It could just mean... Not having to bother getting out of the couch."

"Well, I thought you were the best I had."

"Thank you," Finns says, smiling affectionately.

"That's the part where you're supposed say _Likewise, Stevie_."

"Oh, rest assured. I would've _definitely_ not settled for you if the sex wasn't great. I really was a slut."

"And here I was thinking we'd actually loved each other."

"I did love you," Finns says. "But pleasure and love weren't mutually exclusive for me. I mean, it still isn't, but priorities change once you leave uni. I grew out of my skanky phase and became a boring old man who doesn't fuck on the first date." Finns shakes his head while Stevie chuckles. "Young Stephen would've put a dagger through his heart if he knew that would be his fate."

"That's the natural course of life. I think after a certain age, if you've had the right amount of good shags, you become more selective. As in, you don't want to go to bed with just about any dumbfuck who crosses your path just because he's offering."

Stephen looks at his friend thoughtfully. "I want to say I disagree, because I think I'd still fuck a hot idiot if I was in the right frame of mind, but I can sort of see your point."

"That's 'cause you're you and your predatory instinct still tells you a cock is a cock," Stevie says around a chuckle. Finns tries to look offended but ends up giving in and joining him. He's not lying, after all. That's how he ended up with Daniel. And everyone _before_ Daniel and even the few ones after him, before he and Harry went steady. "But your head has evolved and that prompts you to give it a second thought and assess the situation more carefully. Besides, it's not like you _always_ wait until the second date to go to bed with the guy."

"Oh, no. That's a new thing. Only with my current boyfriend, which is embarrassing enough."

"It was worth it though, wasn't it?"

Finns can't quite contain the smirk twisting his lips upwards. His first _actual_ night with Harry was remarkable, to say the least. Finns doesn't even like to count their disastrous first date as a date, but he thinks perhaps not going to bed on that first night made all the difference on how the second one panned out. If it wasn't for that supreme embarrassment, their first time probably wouldn't have been so memorable - Finns would've been nervous and fidgety rather than hungry and turned on and Harry wouldn't have acted so naturally and bold because he wouldn't have been very confident with such an iffy man next to him. 

Come to think of it, it would've probably sucked. So unconsciously sabotaging their first date probably saved their relationship.

Once Finns' equipment started working properly enough, he'd jerk off a hundred times a day, like a 12 year-old. Sometimes he wasn't even that much in the mood, it was just about making sure things were still fine down there, as though it would die out again if he waited too long to touch himself. It took quite a while to trust that he was fully back on business. Only it gets old pretty fast to wank by yourself once you're past your thirties and used to more elaborate work. And the number one food for thought in his alone time with his hands was Dr. Kewell. Needless to say, the moment he laid eyes on the man again, on their second attempt at a date, all Finns could think of was the places on Harry's body he wanted to touch with his mouth.

As soon as they sat down for dinner, Finns felt as though he were starring in some lame erotic novel. It was 50 Shades of Finnan all the fucking way. Absolutely everything Harry did - from gesticulating to smiling to biting on a piece of bread - felt provocative and sent a jolt shooting right through him, straight down to his underbelly.

He was hard even before Harry joined him in the bathroom. 

Finns hadn't had sex in a public place in years, and the last time it had obviously been at Mercy, which hardly counts. He has no idea what went through his head when he suggested it, much less what the hell Harry was thinking when he accepted, but he did and they went for it and it was absolutely crazy, but also ridiculously arousing, waking something inside of Finns that had been put to sleep by his fucked up head since the whole debacle with Daniel. When he stopped to think about it, afterwards, with the adrenalin already running low, it was more crazy than it was arousing. They could've caused a scene or a riot in that restaurant; worse, they could've been arrested, and Finns doesn't even want to imagine what would happen to his career as a lawyer and Harry's as a psychiatrist with police records for public indecency under their names. 

The restaurant manager did seem to notice there was something not quite right with them and politely requested them to leave - the lawyer in Finns wanted to stay and protest because the guy obviously didn't have any proofs other than a mild suspicion, but he was very much aware that he was in the wrong this time, so he didn't argue. Much. They didn't have dinner, but he did get jerked off and fingered in a rather clean bathroom stall and was walking away free, so he did consider that a very victorious night.

They went to a McDonald's afterwards, when their stomachs started grumbling, and it was the best fucking hamburger Finns ever had in his life. The rest of the evening was just as stellar.

That was one hell of a second first date.

"So, how _is_ Harry?" Stevie asks after a moment, like he'd just been waiting for the right opportunity to pop the question.

"What do you mean?" Finns retorts, taking another swig from his bottle.

"I know you're being well shagged 'cause I can still tell it by your face," he says, matter-of-factly. "But you never told me anything about him, never shared any of the juicy details. Like... _How_ is he?"

Finns considers his friend for a second, wondering if perhaps this isn't going a bit too far. Talking about the past? Sure. Stevie already knew all that stuff anyway. He was there for the most part of it. But giving him actual information on Harry? That might be a little too much. Once Stevie knows something he just never shuts up. And sex is possibly the one thing he loves to talk about most. It's really astounding, considering Xabi is the complete opposite. Finns - he's closer to Xabi than to Stevie on the scale of how much of his private life he's willing to share.

Although... Stevie never really wanted to know about Daniel before. In fact, he looked annoyed whenever Finns said anything on the lines of 'My boyfriend makes me happy'. Stevie didn't want to know how good Daniel was in bed, or any of the _juicy_ details. He only wanted to know when Finns would be kicking his Danish arse out of the flat. Becoming acquainted with his best friend's sex life during that period wasn't part of Stevie's interest unless Finns had slept with someone _other_ than Daniel, which happened very few times and only in the beginning. 

Now, however... 

Stevie's finally asking about his boyfriend again. It's a logic that only makes sense to the two of them, but Finns knows that it means Stevie _likes_ Harry. He accepts Harry as a potentially long-lasting part of their lives. And that is... Well, it's heaven, really. Not having to deal with Stevie's accusatory glowers and judgmental comments all day, every day... It makes things so much easier. 

The fact Harry is scoring high with his friends shouldn't come as a surprise because, as Finns came to find out, it is virtually impossible not to like Harry Kewell. That man is charisma on a stick. He simply _oozes_ charm. Xabi fell in love with him instantly - they talked and laughed for _hours_ when Finns finally introduced Harry officially, _months_ after they started going out. Finns went through two very long phases with Harry, once it became clear that they were somewhat steady: first, accepting that they were, in fact, in a relationship; and second, preparing himself for the potential drama of introducing a new boyfriend to Stevie.

Just using the word _boyfriend_ was hard enough for Finns. Daniel left him a little traumatized. Well, if he's completely honest, it wasn't really Daniel, per se. Finns' trauma stems more from his own stupid and completely unexpected reaction to their break up. He was introduced to a monster that he had no idea lived inside of him. Suddenly he couldn't even recognize himself, had turned into something he always loathed, something he was deeply embarrassed of. And it fucked him up, it really did. So much so he was _impotent_ for months, for Christ's sake.

The truth is that Finns pretended to be _fine_ for most of the time, but the near-accidental-death experience of that one fateful night shook him up bad. And then the possibility of never being able to have sexual intercourse again, at the age of 35, scared the shit out of him. At that point, he honestly thought he would end up alone for the rest of his life, which invariably led him to think that it would've been better if he had actually managed to off himself with the drugs - and, well... That's not a very happy state of mind to be in, to say the least. 

The storm is thankfully over now, but Finns did not make it through totally unscathed. Aside from the encompassing embarrassment, there's also the fear of ever spiraling out of control that way again. Now that he knows he's capable of that sort of insanity, Finns wants to make sure he'll never, ever allow his dignity to reach such critical levels, not again.

Needless to say, his relationship with Harry progressed in baby steps. They hit it off almost instantly - Finns simply adored Harry, couldn't find a single thing about that man which he didn't appreciate at some level, aside, of course, from the fact that he is, to this day, the only person who knows of Finns' little _mishap_. That makes things easier in some ways, because it means Finns isn't hiding his darkest secret from the man he's seeing and also that they never have to effectively talk about it; but it also makes it a lot harder to face Harry sometimes. Or it did, anyway, in the beginning. They're mostly over that by now, and Harry is nothing but discreet. But there were still times when Finns used to be able to tell Harry was thinking about it as though it was written on his forehead and that was... Well, not good.

Harry, being Harry (and a psychiatrist, probably), had all the patience in the world, never demanded anything from him that he wasn't willing to offer, allowed Finns to take his time and come to terms with his own issues. In the end, it was obvious that he was just being ridiculous and a coward not wanting to move forward and finally decided to have Harry introduced to his friends.

Which is not to say he wasn't _shitting himself_ in fear when the day finally came. While most people make a big deal out of introducing a new boyfriend to the family, Finns gets nervous when it's time to meet the Gerlonso couple. The _Ger_ half of it more so than the _Lonso_ half, for obvious reasons. Finns was pretty confident, but still afraid of how things would go. What if Stevie didn't like Harry? What if Harry didn't like Stevie? What if they didn't get along? He was honestly going nuts with apprehension.

Less than an hour into it, though, it became clear that he was just being and idiot, worrying too much. The dinner went as smoothly as it possibly could - Stevie and Finns stood together in a corner while Harry friendly-flirted with Xabi, who was swept away by the Australian's charm. If Finns didn't know better, he would've been jealous by how quickly the two of them hit it off, but it was easy to see that it was all just part of a strategy - Harry was dividing his attention in order to conquer the couple, half by half. The good news was, if Xabi had fallen in love with his boyfriend, then Stevie would too, sooner or later. 

Stevie was a little harder to crack, his mama bear instincts kicking in as soon as he laid eyes on Harry. After everything that happened with Daniel, he swore to step back and let Finns deal with his own shit without any interference, but it was almost inevitable that he would feel protective when someone else finally walked into Finns' life. It took him perhaps three more encounters to finally warm up to Harry, but when it happened... It was all love.

If Finns were the crying type, he would've shed tears of joy.

So he definitely doesn't want to live in a world where Stevie is into every detail of his sex life, but, all of a sudden, it doesn't feel so bad to have his friend being inappropriately nosy. It's like they're back in the old days, when they first met, even before all the shagging. And things have not felt like that for a very long time. Life got serious and irritating and even dark at times after college, but Stevie stood by his side through thick and thin. Well, almost, anyway. It's good to be able to have a moment like this again, when they're thoroughly comfortable in each other's presences. 

"Well," Finns finally replies after a moment of reflection. "Basically, Harry knows his stuff. I mean, _really_ knows his stuff. Definitely the best guy to come out of medschool I've ever fucked. And I had my fair share of med students, as you know. They generally never ranked very high with me, but Harry - he's made it straight to the top. Besides - his junk? Pretty impressive," Finns says, a proud little naughty smile dancing on his lips.

"Yeah? Like how?" Stevie prods, turning to look at him with interest.

"Well... Not like John Terry's, but... Very nice."

"Like this?" his friend asks, putting both his index fingers up in the air and apart.

"Soft or hard?"

"Hard."

Finn shakes his head. "No. Hard is more like... This," he says, pulling Stevie's fingers further apart.

Stevie whistles, arching both his eyebrows. "Shit."

"I have no complaints."

"Amen to that," he says, clinking their beer bottles together once more before drinking from his. Then, after a second, with a mischievous grin on his lips, he says, "Don't you want me to tell you about Xabi now?"

Finns frowns. "Seriously?"

"Why not?" he shrugs. "You just told me about your boyfriend's cock."

"No, I mean you seriously think I've never seen Xabi's cock?"

Stevie turns to him, genuinely aghast. "What?" 

Finns laughs shortly at his surprise. "Stevie, I've stayed over at yours more times than I can remember, we've been on trips together. _Saunas_. I've seen his stuff. And not just once."

Stevie gapes as he tries to recall all the situations Finns might have had to see his husband's naked form before. "How come I didn't know about that?"

"Why would I tell you? 'Hey, Stevie. Just saw your husband's dick. Congratulations, by the way,'" Finns says around an eye-roll. "It wasn't anything special, just... Accidents. But," Finns makes a dramatic pause, takes a swig from his bottle. "I must admit I have... _Looked_. As in, my eyes were attracted to his... Parts."

Stevie narrows his eyes reprovingly at Finns, shaking his head. "You are such an arsehole."

"I couldn't help it," Finns defends himself. "You'd look too."

"Of course not!" Stevie protests, all indignation. "If I ever walked in on your naked husband I'd _immediately_ turn away. I'd never look at his stuff." Stevie stops, looks away, and then adds, "A lot. Just a little bit." Finns laughs and Stevie soon can't avoid following after. What harm can a little peek cause? It's not like he was lusting after Xabi or anything of that sort. It was just a moment of weakness in which Finns couldn't help but check out the competition. He had lost a boyfriend to Xabi, after all. 

"What did you think?" Stevie asks after a moment.

What did he think? Well...

At first, Finns felt depressed. For the longest time after he and Stevie had sort of reconnected and were trying to get past the weirdness to be friendly around each other again, once Finns got to see Xabi as an actual person rather than merely as the _cunt who'd stolen his boyfriend_ , he was dead jealous. Xabi is so handsome it is just ridiculous, not to mention unfair. Finns kept telling himself that there had to be _something_ wrong with him - sure, the package looked perfect on the outside, but he just ought to have come with some manufacturing defect. 

Finns theorized that Xabi was boring as hell, that he made weird noises during sex, that he had a tiny, little hermit between his legs - personally, he hoped for the latter. As it turned out, Xabi was not only a great overall person, but he also looked as fit without clothes as he did with them, the proud keeper of a perfect round ass and a very much _not_ hermit. It was annoying as hell. There's hardly anything more guaranteed to make a person depressed than finding out his ex's current is better looking in absolutely every aspect. It did take Finns a while to stop being envious.

He still doesn't know about the sex sounds, though. There might still be hope.

"Well," he starts. "I gotta give it to you, Gerrard. You made quite the upgrade there."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"He's gorgeous."

"You mean in comparison to you or in general?"

"Both."

"Aw, Finns," Stevie says, petting Finns on the leg. "You're gorgeous too."

"Not as much as him, though," Finns replies, matter-of-factly and without a single drop of bitterness - well, maybe just a tiny little one.

"That's not true."

"I'm just being real."

"You're being stupid."

Finns shrugs and sips back from his beer, not keen on following the conversation. He can count on his fingers how many times he and Stevie talked about the whole Xabigate situation. It's still a type of taboo, especially because Stevie never seems to fully forgive himself. Finns knows very well that his friend's over-protectiveness stems from a very strong sense of guilt trailing back to his betrayal, even though it has all been long forgotten. It was definitely not their finest moment, though, and it feels weird to talk about Xabi in a bad way now that they're all friends and that he actually likes Xabi. It's not worth it to crush the mood of such a good summer night by bringing that dirt back up.

After a long stretch of awkward silence, Stevie decides to return to their initial topic of conversation.

"So who's the best fuck you've ever had?" he asks, grinning wickedly.

Finns shakes his head. "We can't talk about that."

"Why not?"

"Because it'll get awkward. I won't say you, you won't say me, and we've fucked each other. That's the opposite of getting our egos stroked."

"I can take it," Stevie shrugs.

"You're also obliged to say Xabi, so that's really no fun at all."

"I'm not," he protests.

"Of course you are."

"Why? Just because we're married?"

"Exactly because you're married. If he's not your best fuck, there's something wrong with your marriage. You've been together for way too long not to be having the best sex."

"That is so not true, Stephen," Stevie says, turning his face so he can look straight at Finns. "Those two things are totally unrelated. Xabi means much more to me than just good sex. Besides, if I say he's not the best fuck I've ever had, that doesn't mean he's _bad_."

Finns blinks at him, very impressed at the fierce defense of his argument. He'd never think in a thousand years that Stevie could've had a better fuck than Xabi, whom he treats as the product of divine intervention in his life. "So who is your best fuck?" he questions, curiosity peaked.

Stevie is silent for a long moment before finally saying, "... Xabi."

Finns snorts, shaking his head. "You're pathetic."

"I was proving a point."

"What point? You just made a whole speech and then admitted that I was right. If we were in court, you would've just lost the case."

"It was a speech in defense of a person's right to love their partners above everything else and not be ashamed to admit that they've had past sexual experiences that were just as good or better, albeit devoid of sentiment."

" _A_ person. Not you, though."

"What can I do if my husband is perfect?" he says, smirking. "He's great at everything he does, including sex." 

Finns rolls his eyes and finishes his drink. That's the fourth beer he's had tonight. Soon enough they'll need to go back down, if anything because his bladder is starting to show signs of complaint. 

"Who's yours, then?" Stevie continues. "Dr. Big Junk?" he adds with a wink.

Finns cocks him an eyebrow. "I don't know if you're talking about Harry or John Terry."

"I hope to God Harry is better than John because if that's not the case, I am _so_ sorry for you."

The Irishman snorts a laugh. "He certainly is."

"So is he _the one_? With the magic dick, I mean?" Stevie asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that reminds Finns of stupid old comic shows. He laughs a little and then stops to consider the question. And then...

Well. Then he starts to wonder just how quickly he'd die if he jumped from the roof right now. Would he even feel anything? Because if not, then it might be a good idea. Finns is too averse to pain, but right now he's even more averse to the name that immediately crossed his mind as he thought back on his best fucks. It came to him so naturally, as though it was _obvious_ , that it actually scared him. And then caused him to feel a little sick to the stomach.

Daniel.

Now there is an effective way to kill a good buzz right on spot. His ex-boyfriend, whom he hasn't seen in almost a year and who he should be absolutely over with by now, is still the best sex he's ever had. Talk about sad truths.

The worst part is Finns hadn't even realized that until this very moment. He made such a strong effort not to think about Daniel for such a long time that, after a while, it became default. But apparently pretending someone was never part of your life doesn't immediately erase him from it. Harry is obviously fantastic, Finns wouldn't want to change anything about him or about how they do things together, but... It's been six months since they started going out. Daniel had four years to get to know him, learn every single patch of skin on his body and what exactly made him tick. It seems unfair to compare the two of them under very distinct circumstances. But still... For some reason, Finns can't quite shake that tiny little fear inside of him that Daniel might be forever the best sex he's ever had, which means Finns will remember him as more than just an idiot who almost ruined his life. It was hard enough to force himself to fall out of love with Daniel. 

Does that mean that he isn't completely over yet? Does thinking of Daniel as good sex mean that he still loves him?

See, _that_ is what Daniel did to him. Now he starts freaking out at every little thing, getting riled up at the smallest possibility of keeping that name attached to his life somehow. The monster is still inside, just waiting to come out.

"... Yeah," Finns says after a moment, prompting a strange look from Stevie, who obviously notices the sudden change in his friend's mood. "It's Harry."

They lapse back into silence after that, Finns not wanting to talk anymore in case things get worse, Stevie not exactly sure of what happened - if it was something he did, something he said - but not wanting to twist the knife any further. 

What an uplifting end to their hot summer night...

 

x-x-x

 

**Three years later...**

It's not as often now as it was about a year before, but it still happens. If Finns is really distracted whenever he's driving home, especially after work, when he's usually tired, moody and going over a hundred different things over and over in his head, he will not rarely end up going to his old flat. It's an instinct, really. His internal GPS still points towards the apartment he owned for more than ten years, the first and only home he ever had in Liverpool. Before the new one, that is. 

When Harry suggested that they moved in together, Finns hesitated. And not only because of his previous traumatic experience of sharing a home with someone, which somehow, even so many years later, still clouded his judgment and caused him to halt. No, it was more than that. Finns had a personal connection with that flat. It was _his_ place. It took him weeks and weeks of seeing apartments until he finally found _the one_. In all truth, that place was the longest lasting relationship he's ever had, the only one that never caused any disappointment. Finns absolutely loved his flat. It held his very essence, every corner of it reflected his personality. Most people are all about upgrading their dens because they're never fully satisfied with where they live. They either want to go bigger, or fancier, or lighter, or darker, sometimes. Not Finns, though, nuh-uh. He'd stay there for the rest of his life if he had to, with absolutely no regrets. It wasn't the most luxurious flat a person in his position could own and it could probably use a little re-do here and there, but in his eyes, it was perfect. Safe. _Home_.

Only that was probably the very reason why he and Harry could never live there together. Finns didn't realize that back when he was with Daniel, but the sentimental crap he experienced at the thought of leaving his nest made it only too clear that that apartment could only ever belong to _one_ person, not two. It could never be Finns-and-Harry's, just as it had never been Steve-and-Daniel's - it was only ever Finns' place, and whoever came to reside there with him would only ever be a temporary guest. There's no way someone else could ever make that flat into a _home_ of their own. Figuratively speaking, there was not enough space for another soul because Finns' had expanded to fill the entire place, even the air. 

Harry used to rent a nice little apartment back then, so, to him, there was no painful severing. He held no emotional bonds with his flat whatsoever. Finns, on the other hand, might have shed a tear, although he won't ever let anyone know that. Once he admitted to himself that the only way he and Harry would ever be able to establish a life together would be if they found a place that was good enough for _both_ of them, a white canvas where they could start painting their own memories from scratch, it was quite clear there was only one option. 

It took them weeks to find the right place - mostly because of Finns, Harry is very easy to please. Some fighting occurred as they decided how to decorate and which pieces from Finns' old place to take with them (Finns wanted _everything_ , Harry thought he was being hard on purpose), but it was all mended with sex. They did it in every single room, even the small balcony area, which was quite the challenge, given the space available and the risk of being caught. It was worth it, though. _Very_ worth it.

Finns doesn't really miss his old place anymore. He's totally adapted to his life with Harry now. So much so that he feels genuinely embarrassed by how scared he was to take that step. Harry is probably the easiest person to be around Finns has ever met in his life. Still, there's some lingering gut reaction inside of him that leads him back to Single Finns' Life from time to time. Sometimes he realizes what he's doing before actually getting there and simply turns around and pretends it didn't happen; other times he only figures out he's at the wrong place after he's parked the car. It will stop eventually, he's sure of it. He's improved a lot in the last eight months or so; in the beginning, he used to only remember he doesn't live there anymore once he was standing right on his former doorstep. Lucky him the new owners never caught him there, but Dirk did laugh at him unceremoniously, which made him feel ridiculous enough.

Stevie recommended he sought professional help, and he did, of course, considering he sleeps with Professional Help now. Harry's reaction was to mock him and make little sarcastic remarks whenever the opportunity presented itself. How about that for shacking up with a psychiatrist, huh?

Well, it happened tonight again. He went for almost two months without any setbacks, but work was a bitch and Finns was so very pissed off he didn't notice he was moving towards his old street until he turned around the last corner. 

"Shit," he muttered to himself, slamming his hands against the wheels. That was all he needed to close a perfectly fucked up Friday.

Not only was his day terrible from nine to five, but he's all alone to nurse his own crap tonight.

Now, what is the point of living with someone if you can't have company when you need it most?

Harry went home to Australia for ten days. It's only the first time they've been apart for that long since they got serious, so Finns really shouldn't be so pissed off. Sometimes he forgets that Harry's family doesn't live just a four hours’ drive away. But it's like the universe decided to pick exactly this week to make everything shitty, and it just gets double worse because Harry's not at home. Frankly, it's torture. That'll teach him to appreciate his boyfriend more when he's around (that will last for about seven days, then they can go back to bickering about stupid things again like a normal couple).

Finns considered inviting Stevie over or going out for drinks or something, but he overheard him confirming restaurant reservations, so that is one happily married friend he won't be able to drag out with him. Then he texted Sergio, but the reply received was ' _Sorry, gig tonight! :^(_ ' which really means he has date night with Martin. Sergio has this thing where he thinks if offends Finns to talk about Martin because of his proximity to Daniel. Finns couldn't care less, of course. He never liked Martin, but whatever. Does he think Sergio is crazy? Sure. Can he understand what the hell the two of them are doing together? Hell, no. But if Sergio is happy, then who is he to judge? The two of them went steady-ish a few years before, although Sergio still claims to be 'free as a bird' from time to time, which Finns thinks means he and Martin had a fight and broke up. They do that on and off thing as well. Apparently both of them have commitment issues. Lately, though, it's been more on than off. They might be actually getting to the point where they won't be able to get away with saying they have a _'regular fling'_ and will just have to stop being stupid and admit they're together. It's been almost four years, for God's sake. Finns already made it clear he doesn't mind being in Martin's presence, if he must. They won't ever become best buddies, but it's not like they'll kill each other or anything. Martin hated Finns' guts because he was with the guy he secretly lusted after, and Finns despised Martin in return because he used to fuck his boyfriend behind his back. Now that that common denominator has been eliminated, there's no reason for animosities. Sergio can chill.

But anyway. No Stevie (and consequently no Xabi either), no Sergio. There's really no one else Finns would trust with improving his mood tonight, so he simply decided to go home (the right one now) to brood in silence while stuffing his face with ice cream. He'll wrap up his night with a long bath, some wine and a lonely wank. Sad, but it could be worse, he reckons. Plus, it's Friday, which means he won't have to get pissed at a client again until at least Monday. So that's something already.

Except when he actually gets home, Harry's sitting on the couch, casually studying a book with his reading glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose.

"Hey! You're home!" his boyfriend greets him, all enthusiasm, as though _Finns_ was the one not expected to be home that night, not him.

Finns is frozen for a second, gaping. If that isn't proof enough that wishing on something really hard works, then he doesn't know what is.

"That settles it, then," Finns says, finally closing the door and moving to remove his coat. "I'll have to call mum and let her know she was right all along. God really does exist."

Harry removes his glasses, frowning. "Did I miss something?"

"Me, I hope." Finns flops down on the couch next to his boyfriend and pulls him into a kiss. "Couldn't stay away for another three days?"

"Sure," Harry says, chuckling. "That, and my mother is insufferable."

"Let's just pretend it was all me for the sake of stroking my ego a little bit here. I had a really bad day."

"I missed you so much I thought I would die if I stayed there one more day," Harry says, pulling him closer into a proper embrace and a deep, languorous kiss. Finns' hands snake around the other man's waist as he shifts around to facilitate access.

When they finally break apart, lips swollen, face flushed and eye-lids at half-mast, foreheads pressed together, Finns speaks, "You're ridiculous."

"I am," Harry admits, stealing another little kiss. "But at least I'm handsome."

Finns shakes his head and moves back, not quite able to contain the satisfaction smile from creeping up on his face. It's amazing how quickly Harry manages to improve his mood. 

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming home? I would've picked you up at the airport, or something," he says.

"Nah. I promised you ten days. It wouldn't be fair if I cut your hours with your lover short." Finns cocks him an inquisitive eyebrow. "What? That's nice of me."

"You know, you'd feel terrible now if I'd really been with someone."

"Were you?"

Finns considers lying for about two seconds and then figures it's not worth it. Besides, Harry wouldn't believe him anyway. Probably not even if it was true. He's just one of those eternally optimistic people to whom trust comes easily. It has probably something to do with his job. You can't really deal with problematic and traumatized people all day, every day and not get affected by it unless you're really, _really_ positive. Finns wishes that could rub off on him a little sometime. 

"... No," he finally admits.

"Well, then," Harry says, grinning triumphantly. "Still just funny."

"How was good old Australia?"

Harry sighs, removing his glasses. It's just a fraction of a second, but Finns notices his smile faltering. The blink-and-you'll-miss sort of thing. Not many things get to Harry Kewell and his eternally blithe mood, but his family is certainly one of the few that do. Badly.

"Oh, you know," he starts. "Giant spiders in the toilet, koalas, kangaroos fighting on the streets... Normal."

Finns offers him a sympathy grin. "That bad?" he asks. By now, Finns' learned to identify Harry's very clever however meaningful mechanisms to divert attention from the things that truly bother him. Turns out, being a good and professionally trained listener and adviser doesn't make anyone a good talker. Or perhaps exactly because of that.

Harry moves his eyes away from his boyfriend, down to his own lap. "I couldn't stand to stay another two days. Mom is... A ray of sunshine."

"You still made it through eight days," Finns says. "You should be proud of yourself."

"Technically, it was six days. Australia is a billion hours away from here, I spent almost two entire days travelling."

"Still proud of you."

"Thank you," he smiles again, and then claps his hand once. "I almost forgot! I got you a gift! Oh man, it's such a great gift! Wait here."

Harry disappears through the corridor and returns a few moments later, beaming, carrying a small rectangular and very well wrapped box in his hands.

"Here," he says, giving it to Finns and flopping down in front of him like a kid on Christmas Eve. "Open it."

"Well, you look excited," Finns comments, pulling the paper apart.

He really had no idea what kind of gift it could be, but what he finds inside the box is... Definitely not on his realm of possibilities. 

"Wow, it's a... Dildo?" His words wound up sounding more like a question as he takes the weird looking piece in his hands, very hesitantly, afraid to touch it too much. It certainly doesn't resemble any dildos Finns has ever seen in his life. "A dead person's dildo?" he tries.

Harry laughs, and Finns would've certainly joined him if he wasn't so confused about the gift. He does get a warm sensation that starts on his belly and radiates towards the rest of his body, though. The feeling of having Harry's laughter back in the flat. He missed it so much.

"It's an alien dildo!" his boyfriend announces, opening his arms in an ' _Isn't this amazing?!_ ' sort of gesture that Finns doesn't quite follow.

"Alien?" he asks, eyebrows up to his hairline as he begins to further inspect the piece. It certainly resembles a normal dick in a general manner, only it's not quite right. It's curvy and has these very thick veins and the head is... Well, like a snake with its mouth open. But the weirdest part is the color. Baby blue. But not a childlike baby blue. Baby blue like someone ripped this dick out of its owner and left it to rot for a while on the bottom of a lake. 

It's kind of disgusting, to be perfectly honest.

"How awesome is this?" Harry says. "I couldn't pry my eyes away the minute I saw it."

Finns frowns thoughtfully. "You know, there are lots of options for what could possibly be more disconcerting about all this: that you thought a blue alien dildo was an interesting piece, that you're giving it to me or that you went to a sex shop while you were in Australia visiting your family."

"I'll have you know that Australia has very good sex shops. And come on, how is that not a great dildo?"

"I can't think of a single reason why a person would get off on having an alien dick stuck in their ass."

"Well, maybe because of the eggs."

Finns cocks him an inquisitive eyebrow. "I'm afraid to ask."

"Here," Harry says, taking the dildo from him and showing him the head. When he pulls the slit on the top apart, Finns can see what indeed looks disturbingly like eggs inside.

"Oh my God," Finns says, half-way between being horrified and amazed. "What the hell is that?"

"You have to lube it up and then as you use it," Harry explains, making the slow movement of fucking someone with the dildo, "the eggs slowly slip into your ass. It's made of jelly, so it melts when it gets in touch with the inside of your body. But I was told it feels really good."

"Are you being serious?"

Harry laughs again, then shrugs. "I just thought it was genius. Come on, an alien dildo that lays eggs in your ass. Who would ever think of that?"

"Australians, apparently. That's just one more weirdness to add to your list. Egg-laying dildos."

"To be fair, this is a true product of the United States of America. But the Australian market loves it."

"It would, wouldn't it?" Finns stops talking for a second, taking back his gift from Harry. "Eggs in your rectum? Really?"

"Curious?" Harry smirks.

"Stupefied."

"It was either the dildo or Aborigine wine."

"Aborigine wine? Is that even a thing?"

"I don't know. There was a large chance the guy was bullshiting me to take my money, so I thought the dildo was a better option. At least I knew what I was getting."

"Sure. Fake wine or alien dildo? These are certainly the most Australian things there are. Boomerangs are things of the past."

Harry laughs again and leans over to steal another kiss Finns very willingly offers. When he finally pulls away, something changes about him. 

"What?" Finns asks, noticing the creases on his forehead (which means he's thinking deeply) and the way he's biting on his lower lip (which means he's nervous).

Harry remains silent for a second longer, and then, "That's not the only thing I bought you."

"Oh," Finns says. "Not another alien artifact, hopefully."

"No. Not alien at all. It might suffer from being too human."

Finns gives Harry more silence to fill with an explanation or something of the sort. He says nothing, though, just stares at Finns with an intensity that, after a moment, starts to feel awkward. "Well, what other native Australian gift have you brought me?" he prods, slightly nervy himself now.

Harry gets up and walks very slowly towards a coat hanging on the back of a chair, faulty steps indicating that he's hesitating. Finns frowns, wondering what could possibly be the matter with him. Did something happen with Harry's mother, who Finns knows was sick? Maybe she died. Maybe Harry inherited something and decided to give it to Finns. Oh God, that would be awful. But... He wouldn't have joked about alien dildos if his mother was dead. They never really saw eye to eye, but still. Harry wouldn't have done that. And he would've probably mentioned it in one of their trillions of Skype sessions while he was still in Australia. It must be something else - but what?

Harry fumbles nervously around the coat pockets, one after the other, and when he finally finds what he's after, he stops, frozen for a second too long, before finally grabbing it and returning to the couch. What he has in hand is a very tiny box with a beautiful bow on top. Harry is squeezing it with such strength it looks deformed already.

This is not like Harry at all, and his ouf-of-character behavior is traveling through the air to hit Finns like a wave, shooting across his boy like little jolts of anxiety. He doesn't even know what is it he's supposed to be fidgety about, but he is. Everything felt fine just a second ago and then... Finns has this feeling like he's missing something. And something quite important. Harry's the king of untrouble and laid-backness. Even when he decided to ask Finns to move in together he did it as though it was the most casual of conversations, like an afterthought. That man exorcizes his anxiety through jokes and inappropriate remarks, not by being jittery. 

Finns is starting to get worried.

"It's not Australian," he finally says, after what seems like ages, avoiding Finns' eyes. "It's native John Lennon airport, actually."

"You brought me a gift from the airport?"

"Yes," he replies, simply.

Finns waits for him to follow that up with something that actually makes sense again, and, when he doesn't, simply places a hand on Harry's forearm and give him a gentle squeeze to show some support. Whatever it is, he looks like he needs it. 

"Is that gift so great that you're changing your mind about giving it to me and thinking about keeping it now?" he tries his hand at a bit of humor.

Harry snorts and finally looks back at him, somewhat more relaxed. "It's not that, it's - I need to give you a bit of context first, before I show you what I got. Or else it will seem... Weird."

"Ok," Finns agrees, slumping back against the cushions. "Give away."

Harry takes a deep breath, looks down at the box, carefully fixing the bow he ruined as he starts to speak. "The first thing my mother asked me when I saw her was if I'd grown out of my _sinner phase_ already and found a nice girl to make a decent man out of me yet. Not 'hello', not 'how are you', not 'you look great, son'. She hadn't seen me in over two years and the only thing she cared about was whether I'd stopped being gay."

_Ouch_ , Finns thinks, making a little grimace. He gets more and more convinced that Harry's folks are the worst people ever every time he hears a new story about them. They're all terrible.

Unsure of what to say, he decides to resort to the same kind of thing Harry does whenever the conversation gets too heavy: ironic commentary. "Oh, the nice girls with their magical de-gaying vaginas... They're getting so rare these days. I'm still waiting around for mine."

The corner of Harry's lips pull up into a tiny grin. Good enough.

"I told her I hadn't found a nice girl, but I'd found a nice _boy_ to make me happy. Needless to say, _she_ wasn't very happy to hear the good news."

"But do I make you decent, though?"

Harry snorts. "I think decency is highly overrated."

"It's good that you have your priorities sorted," Finns says, smiling.

Harry had a... Difficult life, to say the least. He was never really accepted by his family, never had any sort of support at home. Quite the opposite. His parents tried their hardest to keep him from ever coming out, making veiled threats and telling horror tales to scare him off since he was a young boy, which is just... Something so terrible that Finns can't even fathom the idea, really. Parents who will sit their 13 year-old in front of a TV to show him news and documentaries of boys who'd suffered bullying in school or had been beaten to death by homophobes to teach him why he should never _'Be seen walking around or being friends with sissy boys'_ so that he wouldn't get "accidentally mistaken" for _one of them_ are just... Well, monsters, putting it simply. 

They were teaching a confused gay teenager that it was wrong to embrace who he was, instead of reassuring him that they'd protect him from the homophobes. It was the same as saying _'This is what will happen to you if you turn bender and it will be very well deserved'_. Who needs school bullies when you have parents like that?

Harry lost his virginity at 15 to a 25 year-old prostitute his father paid to have sex with him as a 'coming of age' gift. Honestly, Finns sucked his first cock at the age of 14, so he's obviously no role model at making mature decisions when it comes to sex, but it was a completely different sort of situation. He was doing it in his own time, because he wanted to, and with a boy his own age, who felt exactly the same way. There was absolutely no one pushing him to have sex. Neither him nor the other kid had any idea what they were really doing, only that women in porn did it all the time and they thought it must feel nice - whether what really caught their attention in the movies were the women or the hard cocks was still a bit hazy at that point. Finns went to an all-boys boarding school, which means dicks was all he had to practice with anyway. Harry's father, on the other hand, practically forced an older woman onto his son, like burying his dick in a vagina was some sort of manhood test he could not go back from.

When Harry turned 18, his parents tried to convince him to marry his girlfriend, who was 17 at the time, and start a family. _"That's the best thing a man can hope for in his life, son"_ they said. Only _starting a family_ meant abandoning his plans of going to university. His own father was a renowned family doctor in Melbourne. You'd think he'd be proud that his son wanted to follow his footsteps. Well, you'd be wrong. He was more worried his only male child would turn into a little cocksucker than that that he would be a complete failure and live an unhappy life for the rest of his days. Sheree - or She-ra or some shit like that, Finns can't remember the girl's name - didn't get pregnant, though, and Harry's application was accepted with flying colors, so it never really became a matter of choosing one or another. Besides, her family didn't think it was that much of a good idea that their daughter became a housewife before she was even out of high school. Unlike Harry's parents, they had dreams of a brighter future for their girl.

That didn't last long, however. She-ra - or Shereen or maybe it was Sasha - did finally get pregnant when Harry was halfway through his second year of college. He doesn't know for sure, he said, but he thinks if might have had something to do with his mother's persistence on spending time with her 'future daughter-in-law'. The things that hateful woman must have taught that poor girl... Their sex life wasn't exciting or even that active. Once a week just to keep her happy - and, well, at least Harry had the excuse of college taking up too much of his time. That part of the story was particularly shocking to Finns - who'd taken all his years in university as something of an eat-as-much-as-you-want buffet for sex. How Harry didn't go completely crazy from stress studying so hard and not having sufficiently satisfying sex to go along with it is beyond him. The thing is: one day, once a week proved to be enough and Sheree was finally expecting, much to his parents' happiness. A baby was the answer to their prayers.

Harry was already considering dropping out and perhaps taking some night classes in something that wouldn't be so all-consuming so that he could find a day job when the miscarriage happened. In spite of already regretting the decisions he'd have to make in order to provide for a family he didn't even want to begin with, Harry was devastated. He'd be a great father, Finns thinks. Which - frankly, that sometimes causes Finns to fear for their future together. Harry _loves_ kids. If there's one thing that keeps taking him back to Australia to this day it's his nieces. He's absolutely crazy about them. Finns is certain that he envisions a baby of his own at some point in the future. And, well. Finns doesn't. Never did. He makes for a decent uncle, but a dad? Not a chance. That's one thing he definitely doesn't share with Stevie: family dreams. Call him selfish or heartless or whatever shit you want. He was just not born with the fatherhood gene.

But Harry clearly was. He'd already gotten used to the thought of having a little one running around the house when she lost the baby. They were both so sad that Harry decided to do what only a truly good guy would: he asked her to marry him and promised they'd have the chance to try again once he was done with Med School. It wasn't how his parents had dreamed, but it was good enough. They cried tears of joy when he said yes to a woman he obviously didn't love as anything more than a good friend. That's as sad as a life can get, really. But then Harry got a chance to finish his studies in the USA, at one of the country's most prestigious medical programs, and everything changed. 

Being apart from his family and from his wife made Harry realize who he really was, away from all the pressure and the expectations. That thing he always knew he felt for other guys, it wasn't just rubbish. He wasn't a bisexual either, as he'd thought several times. He was a proper cocksucking queen. And in Baltimore no one gave a shit whether he preferred men or women. No one judged him, no one forced him to have straight sex with a friend just to prove a point. No one made him feel as though he'd be eternally damned and ruining everyone's lives just by being who he was. It took him six months before he had his first time with another man. And then... Well. Then he couldn't stop anymore. It was the first time in his life that he was truly appreciating sex, and Finns knows only too well how overwhelming that feeling of discovery is.

He went back home after the first year for summer holidays - or winter, in Australia - and decided to tell Sheree first. He thought he owed her the truth - and also, perhaps, that she would understand it better than his parents. She'd been with him for years, she'd gone to bed with him. She ought to have noticed something, right? Wrong. She cried and yelled and cursed and called him all sorts of degrading things before running to Harry's mother to share the news. Soon enough everyone knew and almost everyone hated him. His sister was probably the only person who offered any sort of support, albeit small. He went back to the USA with signed divorce papers and a mother who talked about him in past tense, as though her son was dead.

Surprisingly enough, his life changed for the better from that point on. He never went back to Australia, got a job offer from the UK and that was it. Now he only ever sees his family once every two years, if much. Although Finns can't really understand why he even puts himself through that torture anymore. If it was him, he'd be more than happy to never see the face of his parents ever again. 

"My parents are getting old," Harry continues, answering the question in Finns' head without the need of it being asked out-loud. "Every time I board a plane to Melbourne I tell myself, you know, with death looming around the corner, they ought to get their heads out of their asses and apologize. They won't want to die hating on their only son. But it's almost like they expect _me_ to do it. They genuinely believe that one day I'll show up and beg for forgiveness for being the greatest disappointment of their lives. I think I'm a little masochist, 'cause I like to torture myself with that ridiculous hope that they'll realize parents should always love their kids, even if just out of guilt or fear of the Judgment Day."

Finns knows that's a reality for, unfortunately, many gay men. It wasn't his, though. He figured out he was pretty much into dicks very early in life. You'd think that'd be a problem in an Irish catholic family, but it was quite the opposite. When he finally came out to his parents, they showed some concern, but not a lot of surprise. It's not like Finns ever tried to hide it, he was just not broadcasting it. Besides, when a 17 year-old boy never had any obvious contact with girls, parents begin to wonder. His very catholic and very Irish grandparents said 'What took you so long?' when he told them. No one ever treated him differently in his family because he was gay or tried to hook him up with girls to see if he was already 'over that phase'. It was probably not what his father would've preferred, given the choice, but Stephen was still his son and a good one at that, all things considered (what he didn't know couldn't hurt him). Perhaps the fact he had another brother made things easier - if one son wouldn't marry a nice girl and give him grandchildren, then at least he had another one. But still. His parents cried with pride when he graduated with honors from Cambridge, they got him expensive gifts to celebrate when he got his first job and helped him pay for his apartment when he moved to Liverpool. They had Stevie over for Christmas almost every year when they started dating (his parents _love_ Stevie) and even met Daniel (who caused a bit of a shock - gay? Fine. But tattoos? That's too much).

He cannot pretend to know how hard things must've been for Harry, but his heart always sinks a little whenever the subject arises. Handsome, successful doctor, with a wonderful sense of humor and such an easy smile... No one would ever guess he's known so much shit in his life. It wasn't until they were together for one year that Harry finally told him his story - before that, he'd always dodge the question whenever Finns asked anything about his folks or his days in Australia. It took him a while to reveal that he was divorced. "Some people have problems with that," he said. "I've had dates who said they don't like to go out with guys who've been in relationships with women before, for whatever reason." 

Well, the only thing Finns has to say to those people is thank you very much for leaving Harry Kewell single long enough to meet him. It's their loss.

"Anyway, I know it's never gonna happen. It's been years and basically all my family does is pretend I'm not gay. Can you believe my mother hid everything pink she owns when she heard I was on my way? Like I'm some sort of gay bull who'll turn into full queen mode if I see the color."

Finns shakes his head. It's a horrible thing, yes, but hardly the worst they've ever done. And, frankly, not really surprising. Ignorance tends to walk hand in hand with prejudice. "Lovely people."

"Yeah... Well. My patience was finished a lot sooner than usual this time. I just had to get out of there and go back to a place where I can talk about cocks as much as I want."

"Well, this is a free cock talk environment," Finns says, smiling and motioning one of his hands around. "And also, you can have all the pink you want."

"If my mother only knew how much I hate pink, she might still have some hope. But, in my heart, I like knowing that I could wear a pink tutu if I felt like it."

"In this flat, no one judges you, although I would strongly advise you against it."

Harry snorts. "I hope so, otherwise I don't know what I'm doing with a man who'd let me go out wearing a tutu."

"I'm not the kind of guy who likes tutus as an everyday garb. But you'd look cute in one. Maybe to pride..."

"Enough with the tutus," Harry cuts him off, shifting a little to sit face to face with Finns. "Here's the thing," he adds after a deep breath. "While I was there, feeling all shades of horrible, I realized... Those people are not my family. They don't make me feel... At home. It's like I'm a different person altogether when I'm there. I feel... Hated. Despised. Like the very core of who I am is what makes them abominate me. I'm a good person, I'm a good doctor, I've made a career, I help the community, I go to charity events, I try to be respectful, I pay all my taxes, I've never been arrested for anything. I'm not perfect, but I think I'm good, or at least I try to be. But that doesn't matter to them. The fact that I like cocks, which is not even something they ever had to directly deal with, tops all the rest. It's all they can see when they look at me. A man gone to waste."

Finns places a hand on top of Harry's, caressing his skin with the tip of his thumb. "I'm so sorry."

"It's nothing new," Harry shrugs. "I'm used to it. It hurts, but not so much anymore. It's just... This time, what made me desperately want to get out of there was the fact that my life was different. I always had this thought that my parents were part of my life and it would always be a ruined corner which I hate revisiting but that I have to because... Well, it's there. But it's not like that anymore." Harry makes a short pause, wet his lips with his tongue. "Steve, what we have here... This has changed everything for me. I had no idea exactly how much until I had to face that old dark corner again only to realize that it didn't matter anymore. It's nothing to me now. Because _this_ , is my life. I have _someone_ to go back to everyday. I have a home that I share with a wonderful man, who appreciates very much the fact I like to suck cock -"

"That's an important quality," Finns mentions. 

Harry smiles, but ploughs on anyway. "- but who cares about me because of all the rest. Who sees me for who I am. And that's the first time I've ever had something like. I've had boyfriends, yes, but... Nothing like this. It was all bad and sad at the land down under, but then I had something to look forward to and it made everything easier. It turned them into a blip. This is where I feel at home. You're my family. The only family I need."

That's as much as Finns can take without kissing Harry, his heart racing manically in his chest. If he were a crier, he would've shed a tear right now, for sure. That was probably the most heartfelt thing anyone ever said to him. In fact, he doesn't even feel like he deserves it. Stephen Finnan, the lad who still has to remind himself that his old bachelor flat is not his anymore, the lad with all the psychological bullshit that keeps building barricades where there should be none, the little spoiled brat who's still learning how to share his life with someone else completely - how the fuck can that Stephen Finnan mean so much to another person? 

Finns never felt like he was anything special. Not to another human being, anyway. Well, with the obvious exception of his parents, but that doesn't count. Stevie rates him pretty high, but he walked away when Xabi came along, which means he saw something in Xabi, some sort of sparkle that Finns never had. The same happened with Daniel. That shows a pattern: whenever he gets too attached, he gets thumped in the head by his own feelings, like a boomerang shot into the dark only to come back and hit him when he least expects. 

But those words Harry just uttered, right there... It felt honest. And real. And fuck, that makes him shiver all over, because it's definitely not something he's ever felt before. It makes him _afraid_ of how happy it makes him, because it also reminds him that it could be over any time soon.

When he launches forward to smash his mouth against Harry's, his boyfriend wraps an arm around his back and they get so lost in the moment that Finns forgets that there was a point in all that speech.

"So," Harry murmurs against his lips, pulling away slowly, eyes sparkling with a mix of lust and fondness and something else Finns can't quite identify. "This is what I got you."

Harry moves away just enough to open the lid on the box, revealing a pair of beautiful silvery matching rings inside.

Wedding rings. 

It knocks the air out of Finns' lungs. He stares at the rings with his mouth gaping, not able to produce any sounds. His heart might've skipped a beat or two as well, because there's a sharp pain in his chest and a vertiginous shudder at the pit of his stomach.

He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to think, doesn't even know what to feel.

"I was going to get you a diamond, but then I thought... Not really your style," Harry says, smiling sheepishly, going for humor in order to ease the tension caused by Stephen's lack of response. When he still doesn't say anything, Harry ploughs on. "So instead of a proper engagement ring, I got us commitment rings. At least that's what the store lady said they're called. And we are to wear these until our wedding day, when we will exchange actual wedding rings." Harry pauses for a second before hurriedly adding. "If you say yes, of course."

Finns is perfectly aware that it's his turn to fill the silence that follows, but the thing is... Well, simply putting it, he can't. Not when he can barely process what just happened. He can't move his eyes away from the rings in Harry's - now slightly shaky, nervously fidgety - hands. There's this huge bubble of apprehension growing inside of him, ready to burst, and Finns is silently working to keep his anxiety at bay, but so far he's doing only a half-decent job at it.

Steve Finnan never, ever even remotely considered the possibility of one day getting married. Like actually exchanging vows and rings and signing papers and calling someone else his husband. That's not something that has ever been part of his plans for the future, and, as time progressed, it got even further away from him.

Finns only ever lived with three people in his life, and one (Stevie) barely counts. They were college roommates, not partners actively deciding to share a life together. As soon as school was over, they each got their place and that was it. Daniel proved to be a very unfound decision based on a misguided attempt to bring them closer in order to fill a Stevie-shaped void Finns had in his life. And then there's Harry, who caused all sorts of mayhems in the beginning, but who's actually turning out to be incredible. 

But living with someone under the same roof is one thing. Vowing to spend the rest of your life next to them is another, completely different and much more life-defining one. It was one huge step to decide to get a place together and pick out furniture together and start sharing bills. Finns is still getting used to all that, still learning how to navigate these unfamiliar waters. How is he going to suddenly commit to someone for the rest of his days? 

That might sound like an every-day thing to some people - you love someone, you marry them; if it doesn't work out, too bad. Just get a divorce and move on. But that's not how he sees marriages. It's weird that out of all the Christian values dogmatized onto him as he grew up, the sanctity of marriage would be the one he'd take closer to heart. To Finns, if you promise to marry someone, you better fucking mean it. He takes it very seriously.

And here's the thing: no one he's ever been with for longer periods of time, no one he's ever shared any pieces of his life with, has ever wanted to stay with him forever. He always ends up being left. Not leaving. _Left_. Heartbroken and destroyed and panicking. And he loves Harry, he really does. Finns loves Harry so much he gets scared sometimes, because it's too big and too impossibly perfect and he doesn't know what to do with that, doesn't want to take it for granted or end up ruining it. So what if Harry decides to leave him as well? What if instead of a break up and an empty flat, he gets divorce papers and settlement meetings? 

He looks up at Harry's expectant eyes, silently pleading him to _please say something_ because, frankly, it is getting awkward. And...

Finns simply doesn't know what to say.


	23. Epilogue - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... it's me! I've been wondering if after all there's still anyone out there to read this.
> 
> Yes, I'm not dead yet and I have not entirely given up on writing, I just don't have a lot of time to do it. I'm pushing to finish the stories I have up and figured this one was the easier to accomplish. I've been working on this final chapter for ages. Not completely satisfied, but... It's probably the best I can do at the moment.
> 
> I'm SO SORRY for all the mistakes you'll surely find, but I have to remind you that I'm not a native speaker of the wonderful English language and it's also 4 in the morning, so I'm particularly sloppy. This really is the final chapter, there will be nothing after, so... I hope you enjoy the conclusion to this universe. :) It's been really fun building these character throughout the years, I feel like I know them by heart now. I'll miss my baby Finns. <3
> 
> If there's anyone still out there, please let me know if you like it! It's really only for you guys that I keep trying to write still. And thank you to everyone who's been with me since the beginning!

Steve Finnan hates divorce attorneys. They are the absolute worst. Vultures who feed off of people's unhappiness, profiting from personal tragedies. The more chaotic, the better. If it's not bad enough, they make sure it gets there. Amicable divorces don't make nearly as much money as angry, aggressive ones. And that's all they want: to draw blood and watch as it turns to gold.

Finns' antipathy is old. Ever since law school, long before he knew where he wanted to go in his career, before his flirtation with corporate law had turned into true, unshakable love, he was at least certain that the one area he'd always want to keep his distance from was Family Law and its scorched earth tactics. Your moral and ethical compass needs to be pretty bending for you to reach the highest levels in some areas of family law. Like divorce, for instance.

He admits that it's entirely possible that his strong opinion on divorce lawyers derives at least partly from the fact that a) most of the divorce attorneys he's met were absolute assholes; and b, his family was always pretty strong on the values of marriage and what it represents. When Finns sees a marriage in shambles, he feels sorry for the people involved. Except when one of the spouses is a complete jerk, then he only feels sorry for the part that isn't. Mostly, though, everyone suffers through divorces. Especially when you get the vultury attorneys. Crying clients sound like music to their ears, because it reminds them of how much richer they will be by the end of the proceedings.

Finns grew up surrounded by successful marriages. His grandparents are nearing their 60th anniversary and they still kiss and hold hands, still sit together by the fireplace in their house in Limerick and tell the story of how they met with the sweetest smiles and the loveliest looks on their faces. His parents have always been so into each other it's was kind of annoying growing up. Finns used to walk into their parents dancing as his father sang old love songs for absolutely no reason when he was younger. Back then he thought it was disgusting; now he kind of envies their sappiness a little bit. His brother married when he was only twenty two, which at the time seemed like a terrible mistake, but it's been twenty five years and three kids and he's still very much in love with his wife. His oldest nephew, Evan - only 18 and already talking about marrying his high school sweetheart. 

The Finnans really are a case to be studied; they were born with a genetic penchant for marriage. Well, almost all of them, anyway.

Most of Finns' friends at boarding school had divorced parents. It's like a disease that spreads amongst the rich - they _itch_ to pay ridiculous attorney fees and settlements, as though that somehow proves how filthy rich they actually are. The more money, the more divorces. Stevie is one of those kids. His parents never stood in the same room together since the day they finalized the divorce. Stevie was eight at the time and, in his own words, that was the happiest moment of his childhood. His mother never had the best parental skills, but she was a much better person away from his father, who in turn was a much better dad when he was simply not there.

That's all very foreign to Finns.

Perhaps because of his own experience with happily married couples as well as close proximity to people who suffered greatly during their folks' divorces, Finns came to abhor the people who make a living out of other people's misery. And then becoming a lawyer himself and understanding the minutia of the work didn't help to improve his opinion much. He respects his Family Law colleagues at the firm out of professionalism, but he would never invite any of them to his own wedding. 

And - well, that's the other thing.

Finns never saw himself getting married. First, because he is gay, and as a boy and a young lad he didn't think gay men could or even should get married. There certainly weren't any gay married couples around to make him believe otherwise, and the priests at the school made very clear to the kids that the corrupted society would burn in hell for even contemplating the idea of vandalizing the sacred sacrament of matrimony by allowing homosexuals in on it. Not that that ever stopped the boys from fooling around, mind you, but at least they weren't considering _marrying_ each other, so it didn't seem to them like they were doing such a terrible thing. He does remember one of his best friends, Tommy Boyle, came back from summer holidays once when they were about 15 vowing to never hook up again with another boy and threatening to rattle on anyone who did because _one of those fags ruined my life_ \- meaning that his father enjoyed stepping out of the closet to fuck his assistant on his free time and eventually got caught and handed a divorce by his very angry wife. Tommy's resolution lasted for about four months. Finns doesn't blame him, though; it is pretty hard to be stuck in an all-boys school in the middle of bloody nowhere when you're a teenager. 

Then, as he grew older and more enlightened, Steve realized that perhaps the real reason why he couldn't fit _Getting Married_ into his list of life goals was because he was just too pragmatic for that type of romantic gesture - and also because he could not bear the thought of being the black sheep who'd bring the divorce bug into his family.

They never had an issue with him being gay, but weddings are still huge for the Finnans. They spend months planning the parties - his brother's wedding lasted for an entire weekend which he remembers very little of.

Finns loves parties just as much as the next person, but he wouldn't want to get married at an Irish castle and have a three days celebration. That alone would hurt his parent’s feelings. _"It's a family tradition, Stephen,"_ his mother used to say whenever he questioned the real necessity for such flamboyant preparations. His mother thinks it's ironic (and also very funny, as she never misses a chance to tell that to her friends as though it were some sort of anecdote) that he happens to be the one person in the family who's not into huge parties and whatnot and also the only gay person in the family, as far as they know. _"My son has to be the first gay man in the world who doesn't fancy choreographies and discussing wedding decorations"_. 

His refusal to have a big reception would be disappointment number one. The fact some of their family members might turn down the invitation out of prejudice would be number two. Mrs. Finnan is a very sensitive person, cares more about whether her son is being accepted by society in general than he does himself (he used to, before, now he just tells _society_ to suck his balls).

Disappointment number three would come sometime later, when he calls to announce that he's staying at a hotel and has a meeting with a divorce lawyer scheduled.

And Stephen _really_ fucking hates divorce lawyers.

The reason he's been thinking about that a lot is because... Well, Harry proposed. And if it seems weird that his first thought after receiving a marriage proposal is how much he dislikes divorce attorneys, it's because it really is. But Finns just can't help it. For some reason, he cannot shake the feeling that he'll need one in a year or two. And he can't even come up with a name he'd be ok calling. He just hates all of them.

Well, he'll need a lawyer in a year or two in theory - assuming he says yes, which he hasn't done yet. 

In his defense, he hasn't said no either. He hasn't said _anything_ , to be honest. Although, he cannot imagine that keeping quiet is a whole lot better than a straight out _no_ , considering it's been seven days since Harry popped the question. How long is too long to keep someone waiting?

The thing is, Steve has no idea what is the etiquette associated with marriage proposals. He doesn't even know if there is one, for starters. He never bothered becoming acquainted with that sort of thing, never had any real glimpses of himself in that kind of situation as a directly involved party. Until now, that is. Not in his wildest dreams did he ever think someone would get down on one knee and offer him a ring.

Technically, Harry didn't get down on one knee, which is great, because Finns thinks the knee thing is very cheesy. But still, it did not leave him any less shaken to be proposed in an unconventional way. 

He considered googling it, but couldn't go ahead out of sheer shame. It's kind of ridiculous if you really think about it. What kind of person gets proposed and has to _google_ what the appropriate response to that is? Not that he's feeling merry about the way he's currently tackling the matter, but he'd feel ten times worse resorting to Google. A little like the worst ever groom-to-be. If he ever gets to that, anyway. The rate things are going, there's a fat chance he'll find the proposal withdrawn by the time he decides to actually offer a real answer to it.

After the longest and most awkward silence of his life, as Harry stared deep into his eyes with a mix of worry and embarrassment that made Finns want to shoot himself, what he wound up saying was _Can I think about it?_ , which... Well. It was practically the same as shooting Harry instead. He could see in his boyfriend's eyes - his beautiful, confident, ray-of-sunshine of a boyfriend - how disappointed he was. All Finns wanted to do was dig up a hole and bury himself in it for the rest of eternity because he hated himself so much right that second that it was hard to inhabit his own skin. He tried commanding his brain to take the question back and say _'Yes! Yes, for the love of God, let's get married right now!'_ , but he couldn't even do _that_. Something kept his words stuck in his throat. And by something he means his irrational fear of failure. 

The scene of Harry closing the little ring box and smiling at him while saying _"Of course you can, take as long you need"_ might have been one of the saddest things Finns has ever seen. It's been killing him a little bit more every day since. 

It's not really fair that Harry is professionally trained to be _comprehensive_. Any other person in his place would've flipped by now. Or at the very least put Finns against the wall and demanded an answer. It's been seven days and fourteen hours since the proposal and still he hasn't said anything. Really, _not a thing_. Finns hasn't even brought it up during conversation, which you'd think would've happened because what the fuck else could be more important than a bloody marriage proposal hanging over their heads? But Stephen is a master at careful avoidance; so far, he's been mindful enough to not even mention anything remotely related to marriage. Even Stevie-and-Xabi as a couple has disappeared from talks. It's either Stevie or Xabi, very separate and independent individuals, never the two of them together in the same sentence. 

Basically, Finns is acting as though nothing happened, and Harry is being as normal as he possibly can, and that... Well, it just makes it all worse. 

Finns feels like a piece of shit, which he might as well be. Not that Harry would ever point that out to him, of course, even though he should. He's got every right to. It's only too easy to embrace the fact that Harry is trying to see his silence through professional goggles rather than through personal ones. He's being understanding and giving Finns space to consider because some psychology text book somewhere says that's normal behavior and so he should wait. No pressure. Which is good, except not really. Not really _at all_. It's fucking awful. Because Finns is taking the time he's been given and he's running with it. Harry smiles, kisses him good night, makes him scrambled eggs for breakfast and doesn't say a freaking word about how goddamn inconsiderate he's being, and it's a _relief_ beyond words, but Finns sometimes wishes Harry would force something out of him because, apparently, he cannot do it on his own.

And then of course he hates himself some more because what he actually thinks is 'I wish Harry was a little bit more like Stevie' and, honest to God, wasn't he supposed to be over the part of his life where he tries to find Stevie in every guy he dates? Isn't the fact Harry is most definitely _not_ Stevie what made Finns fall in love with him in the first place? Jesus. 

Needless to say, things are weird. And that's a gentle way to put it.

It's not that he hasn't been taking his time to do what he asked to do, which was to think about it. He has. As a matter of fact, that's basically all he does. Weddings and marriages and everything he's learned about divorces in law school have been consuming his every thought for the past week. Finns suddenly became the nightmare of interns and first year associates because his productivity has dropped to dangerously low levels, so somebody has to do the work he can't. He could always ask for Stevie's help, of course, but that would require an explanation he does not want to give. And that's just another one of his problems - it's been over a week and Stevie still has no idea of what's going on. For lots of reasons, really, but mostly because a) Stevie would be over the moon with the proposal and then immediately terribly upset that Finns hasn't said yes, which would lead them to b), he would proceed to suffocate Finns with all the pressure Harry is failing to make because Stevie knows no boundaries. In sum, Finns would not only be disappointing his boyfriend, but also his best friend, and then he'd be fucking pissed off, because Stevie drives him nuts like no one else. There's enough confusion in his head as it is, being angry in addition to sad and slightly panicky is not something he needs at the moment, thank you very much.

He'll give Stevie that, though: it is a hell of a lot harder to go through all this by himself. Finns used to think that having Stevie's presence in absolutely every moment of his life was a nuisance, but he could've not been more wrong about it. It's a daily struggle not to run to Stevie's office and curl up in fetal position on his couch until this all blows out. There's nothing he wants more than to hear Stevie saying that it will be all right, even if it's not true. Finns just needs someone to hold his hands and calm him down. But bringing Stevie into the picture just makes it all the more real. And probably twice as terrible.

All this combines to mean that Finns' basic constitution right about now is 5% human to 95% stress. 

Finns blinks the city back into focus, moving his eyes away from his office window, and swirls his chair around to look at the clock. Almost eight already. On a Friday. Under normal circumstances, he'd already be long out of the building. Stevie stopped by at five to ask him out for pints. "You look like you need to get drunk. It's my duty as best friend to make sure you do, and then you can tell me why you've been so weird all week." And, well. Stevie was right in every account, but Finns was still running from him like the devil from a cross, so he managed to make up some lame excuse about how he was meant to have dinner with Harry. Again, under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been enough to stop Stevie ("You _live_ with him, Stephen, you see him every day and you'll still see him tonight, so now _I_ get to be priority"), but Stevie knows Harry gets _upset_ whenever he goes back home - not in full details, just that it is a terrible experience every time. As the product of a fucked up family himself, Stevie gets the need of some homely comfort after such gatherings, so that's the only time he never plays his abandoned best friend card. 

That brings the question of how much of an ass does using his boyfriend's terrible family on his own behalf makes him?

Stevie's long gone, his secretary is long gone, the entire office is long gone, and here he is, still sitting on his chair, staring out into nothing, thinking about the downfall of what used to be a perfect little life until a week before.

After two whole minutes of watching the seconds' pointer going around the clock and trying to wipe his mind blank, Finns decides he's had enough of this Friday. Of this entire week, as a matter of fact.

He picks up his jacket, turns off the lights and leaves. The weather outside reflects his mood: everything's a bit lifeless, the sky in a dull shade of grey that doesn't exactly suggest rain any time soon, but doesn't completely lay off the idea either. He stops a taxi (the official story is that his car's battery is playing up and he hasn't had the time to have it checked; the real story, however, is that he's just been way too distracted to drive, had a scare the other day that almost made his heart stop, both literal and figuratively, so it is probably for the best that he leaves the car at home for a while) and gives the driver directions to the apartment where Harry likely awaits for what will be their first full weekend together since _The Question_ was popped. Now this should be fun.

There's a magazine abandoned on the back seat. Finns picks it up and starts flipping through the pages to have something to concentrate on other than the cold in the pit of his stomach growing faster than an army of white walkers. What he gets, though, is much better than he could've hoped for. In fact, so much better it's almost worse. It works like a charm to get his head out of Harry. 

He is suddenly mesmerized by a pair of green eyes staring back at him, with a cheeky smile, from a full-page photograph on the magazine.

Liverpool's brightest new resident artist, it says. The _it_ boy of the moment in the world of hype modern art. _'And he is out and proud!'_

One and only Daniel Agger. 

Only then does Finns notice that it is actually a gay magazine. _Attitude_ , which he knows, of course, albeit not as a fan. That explains all the shirtless men and sex shop adds. He did register in some dark corner of his mind that that was odd for your ordinary liverpudlian magazine, but he'd been paying so little attention he'd failed to connect the dots. 

This is the first time in five years that he lays eyes on Daniel. He had no idea what the Dane was like now. It strikes Finns that Daniel is now roughly the same age he was when they first met. It makes him feel old and slightly inappropriate - honestly, what the hell was he thinking dating a 20 year-old? 

Thirty years old Daniel looks... Well, _different_. Grown up. Very unlike the Daniel he knew. The haircut suits him much better than the disheveled style he had before - and that is in itself a testament to how much the other man has changed, the fact that he now seems to _care_ about his appearance. Not that he didn't look good in his early twenties, but he looked... Well, in his early twenties. Now he's a proper adult. A _famous_ adult, apparently. 

Stephen's fingers trace the corners of the page out of their own volition and he cannot help the little grin escaping his lips. _Liverpool's brightest new resident artist._ He always knew Daniel would be big one day. Finns might not know shit about art, but he knows something good when he sees it.

The article is a mix of interview and opinion on Daniel's latest exhibition - which, he concludes upon checking the date on the magazine, has been going on for a month now. And, sure, it talks about his experience as a gay guy in Liverpool's artistic scene. _Is it a more open community?, Have you ever felt left out for being gay or a foreigner?, Do you think it is still harder for young gay men to make their way up the ranks in the art world?_ , that sort of thing. 

Daniel clearly tries to be polite about how he truly feels for Liverpool's _artistic scene_ , assuming his opinion hasn't changed in the past five years - a bunch of self-important snobs, he used to say. Finns can't remember a single friend of his who was part of that clan, except for that Simon lad, who technically doesn't count, since he was actually Danish as well. He might've made one or two pals, though, now that he's a super star. There's a sweet part, though, where he pays homage to the Liverpool community. _"I've always felt like home in Liverpool, way more so than I felt back in Copenhagen. It's like I found my place in the world when I got here. There's this club I used to go to a lot, Mercy, which you might have heard of" - we pause the interview at that point for a bit of a laughter and one or two awkward stories of Mercy, Liverpool's oldest and proudest gay club, where this reporter has been to every single time he happened to be in town - "Well, everything I know about what it means to be gay and part of a community, I learned at Mercy. People there get together to fight for what they want, they don't shy away from a good battle and whenever anyone needs a helping hand, they're always willing to offer. Some of my best friends are real active voices at Mercy and some of the best people I've ever met, I met there. It's not just a club. ."_

_Some of the best people I've ever met, I met at Mercy._ Finns wonders if he's still part of that list.

His eyes stay longer on the photos, but he reads the whole thing. Apparently Daniel's exhibition was a hit in Copenhagen and got praised by influential French art magazines as well. It suddenly hits him that there is probably a month-old invitation to the opening night waiting for him at his old building - the one where he used to share a flat with the artist in question. God, that feels like such a lifetime ago... Daniel was persistent. He kept on sending invitations to every single exhibition that had his name on it, as a headliner or otherwise, always with an attached handwritten note to make it clear that it wasn't just an automatic mail being sent to everyone on his address book or whatever. No, those were _personally_ sent - _your presence would mean the world to me_ , blah blah blah.

Finns stopped reading after a while, just threw them all out, not a second thought given. For the first time ever, he's feeling a little bad for the shameless disregard with which he treated Daniel's correspondence.

_"Agger is currently spending a season in Hollywood, but his main studio remains in Liverpool - and he swears it will stay that way. 'This is my work's home and always will be. I can say Liverpool is where my art was born and raised, and it would never be the same if I took it elsewhere. I draw influence from my experiences and the places I go, but the soul of what I do comes from this city,' he explains. 'Besides, I'm still around! Just not as often.'"_

Now _that_... Is actually not surprising at all. Finns had no idea Daniel was technically not in Liverpool anymore until this very second, but it makes perfect sense, when he thinks about it. He overheard Xabi telling Harry once that he was flying out to Los Angeles the next week because one of his writers had signed a movie deal and wanted his help with the script adaptation. Now, Xabi never actually said the _name_ of the writer, but it could only be one person because, when Finns asked him why he was flying to Los Angeles, Xabi's answer was that he was taking part on a panel at a book fair. 

Xabi never mentions Fernando in front of him, that's why he lied.

So it seems Daniel moved across the Atlantic with his boyfriend to support him on his new endeavor. Which, amongst many things, means that they're still together, after five years. It's a strange realization, to be quite honest. Finns doesn't know what to make of it.

For the longest time, the mean and resentful side of him had truly, honestly wished that the two of them would make each other miserable - as miserable as he felt at the time. It seemed only fair. The names _Daniel_ and _Fernando_ were banished from conversations altogether until eventually he forgot. Forgot that he was meant to be angry and bitter, forgot that they existed. Just forgot. Until right now, that is, when everything starts coming back to him.

And what Finns realizes in this moment is... He's not bitter anymore. Not at all. He feels fine, actually. He thinks it's sweet that Daniel moved to a different country to stay close to his boyfriend. He's happy for them. Happy that Daniel is now Liverpool's brightest resident artist and that Fernando is writing Hollywood scripts and that five years after that mess, the two of them are still together. That means they really did fall in love, then. 

He remembers telling Xabi once that if the cheating happens out of true love, then it's not so bad. It seems to be the case now. Again. He attracts that sort of thing, doesn't he? People start dating him and all of a sudden they bump into the great love of their lives. Like Finns is just a lucky charm, fun enough to spend some time with before the real deal comes along.

And that suddenly reminds him of Harry, and all the reasons why he hasn't said yes to his marriage proposal - all the reasons why he's _terrified_ of committing on any level more serious than sharing a rented apartment. 

What if Harry's true love comes along? What then?

He lifts his head from the magazine and looks outside - they're almost home.

A little distressed, Finns says, "I've changed my mind. I want to go somewhere else, back downtown. Turn around."

The driver stops on a red light and turns back to look at him with a strange look on his face. "We're just around the corner from where you wanted to go," he says, pointing to the next street.

"I know that, but that's not where I want to go anymore. Turn back and take me to the Adams Gallery, or let me know now and I'll get another cab," Finns explains in a slow, measured tone, sounding slightly impatient. If the driver tests him too much, he might give up.

The man shakes his head and takes the turn opposite to Finns' place. "Fine by me, mate," he says with a shrug. "It's your money, not mine."

Talk about doing things on a whim. There's a big chance the exhibition won't even be on at the gallery anymore. The magazine is a month old already, after all. But what the hell, right? He never stopped to check out Daniel's work, not with it hanging on gallery walls anyway, and suddenly a driving force within Finns is telling him that this is what he needs to do. The other option is facing Harry and the barely disguised disappointment on his fake smile and, well. Not much of a choice there, really.

And anyway, Daniel's moved to the United States. What's the worst that can happen? He'll just end up visiting some random artist's exhibition and get bored out of his ass. Considering how terrible his week has been, that will be the highlight of it.

He considers taking the magazine with him when he leaves the cab, but decides against it as a little favor to Daniel. Someone else will pick it up, get drawn to his piercing green eyes and find out about Liverpool's brightest resident artist. Not much, but anyway. He reckons it will at least get Dan a couple of new fans, if not because of his talent, then at least because of the very flattering photos on his piece.

It's almost closing time and it takes some convincing for the person at the door to let him in. Good thing he has a diploma on that, then. There's barely anyone inside anymore and the gallery is pretty big, but Finns has no trouble finding Daniel's exhibition. It's only at the biggest room available. According to the brochure he collects at the entrance, it will remain in Liverpool for another four months before it moves on to London and then Tokyo and New York. Seems someone has _really_ moved up in life.

There's only one other person in the room, a really fashionable young woman with blue hair, staring intently at one of the paintings, as though squinting her eyes will suddenly squeeze some sense out of the canvas or something. See, this is exactly the kind of thing that keeps Finns away from art. You kind of have to make yourself look like a moron (in his opinion, anyway) to be cool amongst this bunch. 

Anyway, he walks on the opposite direction of the woman to start his visitation. There are at least twenty paintings there, maybe more. Seems breaking up with him has really made Daniel quite prolific, after all. So it really was Finns holding him back all that time. He feels a bit of a pang somewhere - his ego, most likely - but keeps moving around. It's weird how he recognizes Daniel all over those paintings. It's not just the technique, which he became quite familiar with for obvious reason. Maybe some artistic nerdiness _did_ rub off on him after all, because he doesn't even have to squint his eyes to get _feeling_ and _Danielness_ from the paintings. It's like they're talking to him in a language he can't exactly translate into English or any sort of exact significance, but he somehow can still understand. 

Some of the canvases seem oddly familiar, more so than just because they were painted by Daniel's brushes. Finns is pretty sure he's seen them before. A quick check on his brochure shows that quite a few of the work there is from five years ago. And then it clicks.

He _has_ seen them. Last time he was at Daniel's studio, when they broke up. Finns went through every piece hanging around the place, just out of spite. At the time he didn't think he was actually paying much attention to it, but now he realizes the burning anger he was feeling at the moment must have seared the images on those canvases onto his brain, because he actually remembers them in great detail, might even be able to tell the order in which he saw them the first time.

As Finns wanders calmly around the room, his eyes get attracted to a particular piece, quite unimpressively hanging between two much larger ones. You could easily walk by and not pay any attention to it, not even notice it's there. It looks modest and less important compared to its much flashier and more colorful neighbors. Contrary to most of the work in the gallery, this one looks dark and gloomy, black is its most predominant color. The strokes look haphazard and uncertain, almost like Daniel wasn't too sure what the hell he was doing. It's a mess, to be honest. Some might call it _ugly_. Finns, on the other hand, is instantly fascinated. Maybe because he knows shit of art; maybe because he sympathizes a lot with this painting's place as an underdog in amidst such splendid and dramatic works. Not very far from how he feels himself every single day of his life.

He looks for it on the brochure, and lets a short little laugh escape his lips when he finds the name of it. _S._

Isn't it just grand?

"It's exactly what you're thinking," comes a voice from behind, sounding loud and strong in the empty gallery. 

Finns almost jumps in surprise. Then his jaw drops and his heart skips a couple of beats because standing just few feet back, like an apparition, is none other than... "Daniel," he says, the name feeling odd on his tongue after such a long time.

The smile on Daniel's lips stretches until it looks like his face is about to split in two. He looks exactly like the man on the magazine photos, only now Finns can see crinkles on the corners of eyes and his mouth that were not there the last time he checked. That's what your thirties will do to you. 

"Hey, Steve," he says, and it sends something drumming away up Finns' spine. Been a very long time since he last heard his name in this peculiar Danish accent with a slight Scouser intonation. Finns feels all the color draining out of his face as he just stands there, paralyzed, eyes blinking in a maniac fashion, hoping that the next time they flutter closed, Daniel won't be there anymore when they open. 

But then the Dane bites on the corner of his lower lip - and _oh_. _That_ face. 

There's something startlingly intimate about seeing him like that, in his own element, an intimacy Finns doesn't how to handle anymore. There's a mild curiosity in the way Dan looks at him, genuine but also... Glad. A great deal of Steve just wants to leave, but he's far too drawn into the moment, pulled by some force field created by the familiarity of Daniel's presence, to really give a shit. Strange how quickly it acted on him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Daniel says when the silence becomes too much.

"You didn't," he replies, lying but not really. He wouldn't be reacting like a half-wit if it had been anyone else talking to him at the gallery instead of Daniel. Being _startled_ is not really the issue at hand. "I just... Didn't expect to see you here, to be honest."

"Really?" Daniel asks, amused and not at all convinced. "My name's on the door."

"Yes, well. I realize that. But I was misinformed."

"Oh?" Daniel crosses his arms over his chest, openly smiling now at what, Finns understands, can be easily seen as a poor excuse. "How so?"

"According to a magazine I read, you were meant to be living halfway across the globe."

"Ah," Daniel says, immediately understanding where the confusion came from. Probably not the first time this happens, then. "Attitude. Yeah, that is... Not entirely wrong, actually. I _am_ officially living in the US, but my studio is still here. So I come over, from time to time."

"I was just out of luck, then."

"Ouch," he says, not really keeping a smile from tugging at the corners of his lips. "I suppose I deserve that." Finns smiles, but doesn't disagree. "So, what do you think?" Daniel asks, gesturing towards the now empty gallery.

"I still know shit about art, Daniel" Finns explains with a shrug. "That hasn't changed. Can't offer you anything meaningful."

"That crappy excuse hasn't changed either, apparently. Are you kidding me? Come on, Steve. I'm not asking whether you think this is cubism or surrealism. I just want your opinion. If you're trying to be polite and not tell me you think it's shit, don't worry. I've grown quite thick-skinned to criticism in the last few years. You can say it."

"I don't think it's shit."

"Then what do you think?"

"Well..." Finns takes a deep breath, a quick look around, and then his eyes stop back on the one painting he'd been eyeing before. _S_. "I think it's... Terrific."

Daniel's eyes sparkle with excitement, like a kid on Christmas eve. "Really?" he asks. "Do you really think it's good? Or are you just sucking up to the artist 'cause he's standing right before you?"

Finns snorts. "If there is an artist in this entire world I have absolutely no reason whatsoever to be unnecessarily nice to, I think it's the one standing right before me."

Daniel lets out a short laugh, shakes his head. "That is true."

"My opinion has no real relevance next to the specialized acclaim you've already received -" 

"Bullshit."

" _But_ ," Finns continues. "For whatever it is worth, I think you've done a wonderful job here. There isn't a single painting I've seen I wouldn't want to have hanging on my walls, which is how my personal art'o'meter works. If I see anything hideous or that I think would bore me after a while of staring at it, then I think it's crap. Not this, though. Not yours. I've always liked your work - and that is _not_ sucking up to the artist. I've always thought you were brilliant."

"Yes, you did." The cheeky playfulness in Daniel's behavior morph into something else, his voice growing fond and softer as he speaks. "You told me that several times, even when I couldn't believe it myself. Those early days were not easy for me. I didn't know what I wanted from life, I was still studying but I had no idea what for... My head was a mess, as you know. And I could barely sell anything to feed myself. I considered quitting several times. Probably would've, if it wasn't for you. I had no faith in my own work, but you did. Not just as an artist, but as a person. You thought I could be better than I was, and you were right."

There's a slight pang, the edges of it softened after five years but still clearly there. The affection in Daniel's words is so distinct, so heartfelt, that Finns suddenly doesn't know what to do with it, how to react. He is forced to look away, focusing back on the panting instead. "You owe me nothing, Daniel," Finns says after a moment. "Everything you achieved, you achieved because of your own talent. I had nothing to do with that, so don't give me credit." He can sense the start of a response coming from the younger man and decides this is not something he wants to talk about, lest they ruin the sort-of-nice mood of this unexpected encounter. "So, you said this one's exactly what I was thinking?" Finns starts, and then it hits him, perhaps a second too late, that talking about _that_ is probably not such a good idea either, but it's too late to take it back. "A bit dark, I think. But it does have my eyes."

"Now _that_ would be a surprise, considering it's not really you."

Finns cocks him an eyebrow. "You called it _S_. And I checked the date. If that's not me, then I'm not sure I want to know about the other Steve you were banging back then."

"There was no other Steve," Daniel says, soft-toned, by incisive enough to leave no trace of doubts. "And yes, it is about _us_. But it was meant _for_ , not _as _you. There's a difference."__

__"Oh," Finns says. "I hadn't considered that possibility."_ _

__"It's me, actually," Daniel explains. "Or how I felt, more precisely. It was one of the first things I painted right after our break-up."_ _

__There is a pointed silence that is supposed to be poignant and perhaps meaningful, but that Steve will simply throw away because it might be too much, too spicy. He wants nothing more than to avoid putting the finger on the raw here, but it appears to be inevitable to do so. There seems to be nothing but raw to be touched with Daniel. That is pretty much what their entire relationship was made of, after all - giant black holes made of matters that were just too sensitive to be addressed. In the end, it swallowed both of them up, spitting out a version of Finns that he's still not entirely sure he's managed to correct._ _

__As he studies the lines on the painting however, the dark-colored strokes that symbolize a four years relationship, Finns cannot help but notice how sad it seems to be that this is what they amounted to after everything. "Seems like you were pretty angry," he speaks after a while._ _

__Dan shakes his head. "No. Not angry. Upset. Very much in the dumps. Mostly, though, I felt very sorry. In an impossibly huge and all-consuming way. I didn't know what to do with it, but it was driving me crazy. I had all these things that I wanted to say and explain and I felt like I'd never be able to rest again in my life if I couldn't get it all out, but I was a fucking mess and I've never been good with my words. Besides, you wouldn't listen to me, anyway. So I decided to paint instead. It was my way of getting it off my chest. I painted my apology and hoped that one day you'd see it."_ _

__Daniel turns to look at him now, a little sheepish grin on his lips._ _

__Finns has come to regret many things about the way things ended with Daniel, but _unfair treatment_ is not something he ever particularly deemed himself to be guilty of. He could've done better, obviously. Could've acted less like a butthurt teenager and more like an adult. Buy mostly for his own benefit, for the sake of his sanity and his bruised and fragile ego which has never really recovered from that thump. But Daniel's never been a point of concern, to be honest. Whatever shit he got afterwards, he only had himself to blame. He started it, after all. _ _

__Now, though, for the first time, Finns sees something the rage and resentment would've never let him see, not a in a million years, back on that fateful night almost five years before when he shut the door on Daniel's face and got him out of his life for good: sincerity. Nothing brings clarity quite as well as time._ _

__And, well - he never felt very apologetic about anything related to Daniel before, but Finns is no stranger to the sensation. That thing gnawing on his insides whenever he thinks about Harry - he reckons that's what being sorry in an impossibly huge and all-consuming way feels like._ _

__"You don't have to apologize, Daniel," he says, and means it._ _

__"But I want to. I _have_ to."_ _

__"Apologizing now doesn't change anything."_ _

__"That's what you said back then."_ _

__"And I meant it. Listening to your apologies would've only made me want to kill you. I couldn't stand to look at your face, Daniel, how inclined do you think I was to hearing you say that you fell in love with someone else? I know it made sense in your head because it was the entire motivation behind what you did, but - I was _hurt_. Pretty bad. Hearing you say that would've just plunged the dagger deeper. It wouldn't fix anything, only maybe make you feel less in debt with your own conscience and I was definitely not in the mood to spare you any pain. Now..." Finns shrugs. "It just doesn't make sense anymore. It's been too long. I can't say I forgive you because that would be betraying my past self. But I can tell you that you can let it go now. Don't hold that inside you. It will eat you up."_ _

__Daniel scratches the back of his neck, eyes flickering away from Finns' face, to the _S._ painting next to them, and back. "I can safely say this is not how this conversation went when I had it in my head. Five years and it's still not easy to hear that." He lets out a nervous little broken laugh, shakes his head and finally lets his arms down, with a heavy sigh. "But some things never change, huh? You're still always right, apparently."_ _

__Finns smiles. "I do have a diploma on my wall saying that I'm professionally trained to be always right, or at appearing to be at the very least, so I take that as a compliment." He turns his face to look at the painting again - all those dark, unsteady lines of confused feelings - and says, "I'll tell you what. This one just might be my favorite original Agger, ever. I liked it even before I noticed it was somehow addressed to me. So it did sort of serve its purpose, as much as it could, I suppose."_ _

__"Do you really like it? I told you, you don't have to lie just to appease me."_ _

__"It's beautiful. In a sad way. Which, you know - sounds about right. Sums us up pretty well, I'd say."_ _

__Daniel smiles affectionately at him. "We weren't always sad. There were good moments too."_ _

__"Yes, there were," Finns agrees. "But we were doomed. Which is almost the same thing," he says, with a certain amount of deja vu._ _

__There's that feeling again, the vivid sensation of plunging into something he doesn't really want to talk about, digging up dirt that is better off being left alone. He did not come here tonight to find reasons and hand out forgiveness. No matter how much time passes, Daniel'll always be a scar in Finns' chest - because _there was_ beauty in their chaotic relationship, which makes the way it blew up and collapsed at the end all the sadder. Mostly, though, there's always that tiny sense of shame ingrained into every memory, even the fondest ones, for how he behaved after everything, and if there is one thing that Steve Finnan would _definitely_ want to erase from his mind altogether, it is the memories of those horrible days spent with half his head shaved in a painful reminder of how much of a fool he was. It would be hilarious to remember he nearly killed himself that night if it wasn't so bloody pathetic. Thinking back on all this is not what's going to put his spirit at rest; in fact, it might do exactly the opposite. They shouldn't talk about the past. Mentioning the painting was a stupid idea._ _

__So he decides to try something else. "How's Fernando?" Finns asks, offering a smile that says _I'm fine talking about Fernando, see? I don't care anymore_ , which - really, he _is_ fine. Daniel doesn't seem to believe him very easily, though. Either that or Finns is missing some vital piece of information, because instead of smiling back, Daniel looks away, sighs, seems oddly dejected for a second there._ _

__"He's great," the other man eventually replies with a grin that doesn't exactly meet his eyes. "His book is a success. He just sold the rights to a big studio, they're making it into a film. Fernando's working on the script, it's actually why we moved to the United States."_ _

__"How's married life treating you?" Finns asks._ _

__"We're not married."_ _

__"You moved across the Atlantic to be with him. That's pretty much married life."_ _

__"I guess," he says, with a shrug. "I'm not really a fan of Los Angeles, to be honest."_ _

__It doesn't escape Finns that Daniel's quite clearly trying to stir the conversation away from his boyfriend, a tad above uncomfortable. He considers saying something reassuring on the lines of _'It's ok to talk about him, Daniel, I don't mind. I'm happy for you'_ , but decides against it. It's not his place and it doesn't really matter anyway. _ _

__"Why not?" he questions instead, pretending not to have noticed the trouble._ _

__"Too hot. Too sunny. Too _much_. All the time. I miss Liverpool."_ _

__"What is it that you miss the most, the rain or the three hundred pieces of clothing you have to wear on a daily basis to protect you from the cold?" Finns asks, more than a little hint of sarcasm etched onto his words._ _

__Daniel laughs, but shakes his head in disagreement. "I think heat is highly overestimated. It's nice for the first couple of months, when you still feel a little like you're on a holiday. But it gets old pretty soon. Besides, my art draws a lot of inspiration from melancholy, and it's just impossible to get melancholic over a sunny weather. There's this pressure to feel happy all the time, it's annoying."_ _

__"God. You're more of a Scouser than Stevie."_ _

__"Proudly. Just don't tell him that. He'd get jealous."_ _

__Finns laughs at the thought. Stevie _would_ get pissed at being considered less proud of his hometown than Daniel, wouldn't he? If he didn't think it would be too much of a pain in his ass to tell Stevie about this random encounter, he'd make sure to mention that just to see him miffed. _ _

__"You know what is really unfair?" Daniel starts. Finns cocks him an eyebrow. "You know a lot about me and I know nothing about you."_ _

__"What is that supposed to mean?"_ _

__"Well, you know where I live, you know about Fernando, you know about my exhibition..."_ _

__"Don't go talking to magazines if you don't want people to know about your life."_ _

__"I just mean - it's unfair that _I_ don't have a magazine to read about you."_ _

__"I did give an interview to CAM a couple of months ago. I got to meet the current occupant of my old room and we talked about inspired designs, the world of law and unrespectable hobbies. It was surprisingly fun."_ _

__"What is CAM?"_ _

__"Excuse me, Mr. Out and Proud," Finns says, with a mock-hurt face. "It's a very important magazine for Cambridge students, all right? Sorry if it's not cool like Attitude."_ _

__"Hey, didn't mean to offend!" Daniel laughs. "I'll have to start subscribing to fancy-ass university magazines then."_ _

__"If you want to read about us mere mortals, yes."_ _

__"First thing when I get home. In the meantime, though..."_ _

__Finns sighs. "What do you want to know?"_ _

__"How are you?"_ _

__"I'm good."_ _

__The Dane nods, and then, "How about your doctor?"_ _

__Finns' eyebrow shoot up to his hairline in surprise. "Excuse me?" he says. How the hell does Daniel know about his _doctor_? _ _

__"Ok, so I lied," The Dane admits, that cheeky grin Finns became so familiar with all those years ago brightening up his face again, making him suddenly look ten years younger. "I _do_ know a few things about you. Not much, though," he hurries to add, raising his palms up in the air in a clear sign of peace. _ _

__"Have you been spying on me?" Finns crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed suspiciously at his ex-boyfriend._ _

__"Not exactly. I just... Extracted some information from a few sources here and there."_ _

__"From _whom_?"_ _

__Dan bites on the corner of his lower lip. "Sergio," he says, and then, really low, adds, "And Xabi."_ _

__"Xabi? Xabi has been passing on information about me to you?"_ _

__"See, you're highly exaggerating. He gave me _one_ information. _Once_. Because I asked a lot. And I wouldn't leave him alone if he didn't feed me something. So he did. _Once_."_ _

__Feigning annoyance but genuinely surprised, Finns snorts. "I think I'll need to have a word with him."_ _

__"Oh, please don't. He'll never tell me anything anymore if you do. And he'll probably kill me the next time I see him. If I see him."_ _

__"And what exactly did he tell you?"_ _

__"Just that you were going out with a doctor," Daniel shrugs. "That was a while ago, when he was in LA to help Fernando with the movie contracts and the script."_ _

__"And Sergio?"_ _

__"He's useless. I always try to pry intel out of him when he's with Martin, but he just keeps saying you're _healthy_ \- don't get me wrong, I'm glad that you're healthy, but I was hoping for a bit more. I mean, the guy's dating Martin, right? He should be better at gossiping than this."_ _

__Finns doesn't even try to stop the wave of laughter that takes over him. Daniel's indignation at his friend's loyalty _is_ hilarious. And frankly, Steve hasn't laughed quite this freely at anything in a while. For just a second there, everything becomes light and easy again, and oh, how he missed this sensation..._ _

__"Well, I'll remember to reward Sergio for his silence. Maybe I should tell him more than I tell Xabi. Or Stevie, for that matter. He doesn't know how to keep a secret from his husband."_ _

__"That might be a good idea," Dan agrees, rocking on his heels a little before prodding some more. "So... How's the doctor?"_ _

__And just as fast as it came, happiness flew away and left Finns again. He pries his eyes away from Dan, hoping that he won't catch the sudden hesitation there. Talking about Harry to him doesn't feel quite right, although he cannot think of any immediate reasons for that. Perhaps that's exactly what Daniel feels like in regards to Fernando - just that they shouldn't go there._ _

__"He's... Good," Finns replies, pretending to be interested in the painting again. "He's great."_ _

__"So are you still with him?"_ _

__"Yup," he says, nearly biting on his lower lip. _For now_ , he adds in his head. _ _

__"So it's serious then," Daniel says, not really as a question._ _

___Oh, it's serious. It's goddamn serious._ "Yeah."_ _

__"What's he like?"_ _

__Finns stops at that, turns back to Daniel with a curious look. "What do you mean?"_ _

__"Just that. What's he like? Is he... nice?"_ _

__That is an odd thing to ask, isn't it? Why on earth would Finns be with someone who isn't _nice_? Even Daniel, who has terrible commitment issues at times, was _nice_. Finns considers responding ironically for a moment, but decides against it. "He is nice," he says at last. "Nicest person I know." The truth, plain and simple. And he feels a bit of a stab somewhere. _ _

__Harry _is_ the best person Finns has ever met in his entire life, in every sense of the word, probably. He's a great friend, a great boyfriend, a great doctor, a great overall human being. He's great in the kitchen, great in the bedroom, great entertaining guests and telling jokes. He's great to Finns' parents, to Finns' friends, to Finns' coworkers and even to their neighbors - some of whom, in Finns' opinion, definitely don't deserve his politeness. Harry has an unshakable belief in the goodness of absolutely everyone, which can get quite annoying at times, especially for someone as skeptical as Finns. But that also means he sees good even in his stupid boyfriend, who can't say _yes_ to the easiest question anyone's ever asked him. Can't even bloody figure out _why_ the thought of marriage makes him scared to the freaking bones._ _

__"Are you happy, Steve?" Daniel's question snaps him out of his inner monologue, making Finns blink the other man back into focus. He's a little stunned for a second, whether because the question seems too big for a simple answer, or too personal for Daniel to be asking, he doesn't know. Perhaps noticing his confusion, the Dane offers him a soft smile and an explanation. "Sergio and Xabi tell me that you are, but it's not the same thing, hearing it from them and from you. That's what I always ask them, because it's all I want to know. If you're happy."_ _

__Is he happy?_ _

__That seems to be the question to answer all questions, doesn't it? Because it's as simple as that: he's either happy with Harry or he isn't, and if he is, then there is absolutely no reason for him to destroy everything they've built together because of an idiotic fear. There's an irony somewhere in the fact that it takes Daniel for him to realize this. Why the hell hasn't he asked himself the same question already?_ _

__"Yes," he replies, at last, a genuine smile finally gracing his features. "I'm happy. I'm very happy."_ _

__"Ah," Daniel nods, grinning. "I see it."_ _

__"See what?"_ _

__"You do that thing when you're happy," Dan says, pointing a finger to his eyes. "Just something on your face, it's kinda hard to explain. But I know it when I see it. It's like an involuntary signal you send out."_ _

__"Oh, for God's sake. Not you too," Finns complains around an eye-roll. "Stevie calls it my well-shagged face."_ _

__"Makes sense. You always did make that face when you were well-shagged."_ _

__Finns laughs at the absurdity of the conversation, but also at how easy it seems to flow. It's like they're back at their very best times together, only without the feelings, both the good and the bad. For the first time in five years - more than five years, really - Steve can see how he could fall in love with Daniel. It's not that hard, actually, once you manage to wipe out all the grudge._ _

__And with that, he realizes it's time to go. Not just because it's getting late and Harry will be wondering where the bloody hell he went (whilst still feeling too awkward to call and ask), but because there is no time more perfect to walk away then now. They've reached that point where a page has been finally turned, the bad bits turned into a footnote they can ignore in favor of the good. That's where they should leave it._ _

__"Do you have to?" Daniel asks a little frantically once he announces he's leaving. "We could go out, grab a drink or something. Are you hungry? I'm starving."_ _

__Finns opens and closes his mouth a few times. He has to admit that the invitation is tempting; this has been an oddly pleasant night, after all. But the more reasonable side of him keeps him from buying into it. "That's not a good idea, Daniel."_ _

__"Why not? We're having fun! It's good to talk to you again. I missed this." He makes a short pause, and then, "I've missed you."_ _

__"You've missed me being nice. I have to admit, it is surprisingly good talking to you again. But I don't think we should take this forward. If we sit down for a longer conversation, we'll just keep going back to things that are not so pleasant to remember until it's not fun anymore and I start being nasty and making waspy remarks. I've enjoyed seeing you again, Dan. I'm actually happy that you're here, even though I only came because I didn't think you would be. And that's exactly why I want to keep it that way."_ _

__The other man bites on his lower lip, a wan smile slowly creeping up his lips as he agrees with a nod. "Right again."_ _

__"You shouldn't test me."_ _

__"I'll keep that in mind for the next time."_ _

__"Yeah. You do that."_ _

__They part ways with an awkward handshake that somehow turns into an even more awkward hug but that is still somehow perfect. Finns takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of cologne and ink he had grown so accustomed to once upon a time. It feels wonderful not to have a hint of resentment anymore, not even a little shadow of regret as he wishes Daniel well. The other man says, _"I hope he knows how lucky he is"_ , and Finns doesn't voice his disagreement, but doesn't exactly agree either. He thinks it's more like the other way around._ _

__He's the one who, against all odds, got the winning ticket._ _

__

__x-x-x-x_ _

___14B, 14B, 14B..._ Daniel walks down the aisle searching for his seat._ _

__There's a young lady sitting on 14A, facing the window. She turns to him as he takes his place, smiles. Daniel nods and grins softly back at her. "Hi," he says. "I'm 14B."_ _

__"Hey," she answers as he fastens his belt. She turns back to the window and they don't say another word to each other._ _

__Daniel is not one to strike up conversations with strangers during flights. He actually finds those people who enjoy bonding with their seat neighbors as though they're supposed to become friends just because they've been seated together boring as hell. Usually, he turns on his iPod once the plane has taken off and pretends to be asleep until it returns safely back to the ground._ _

__He does appreciate little gestures of politeness, though. Just sitting there like there's no one next to him seems too rude. He always thinks that, if the plane crashes and they all die, he'd at least like to hear the voice of the person next to him, see a smile or something. Not that it matters, anyway, since they'll all be dead shortly after, and not that he believes in afterlife either. But you know. Each to their own coping mechanisms._ _

__The truth is just that even after all these years of flying from here to there all the freaking time, he's still terrified of airplanes. If there were any other ways he could go from Liverpool to California in a reasonable amount of time without having to step inside one, he would take it._ _

__When Fernando's with him, he usually laughs and calls him ridiculous. _'Look at you, acting like you're tough, tattoos coming out of your ears, and scared of a little airplane. My niece is five and she's braver than you.'_ He always uses the niece line. But he holds Daniel's hand during take offs and through turbulences anyway, and that's enough to calm him down a little. _ _

__Daniel checks his watch. It's not even 11 yet. By the time he gets home, Fernando will probably be asleep. Or not. Fernando has developed this habit of working throughout the night and sleeping during the day, unless he has a meeting or something, in which case he just stuffs his face with caffeine and doesn't sleep at all. He shaved his head because he didn't have the time to care about his hair anymore, and it's not that Daniel has anything against his new short hair - he thinks Fernando looks gorgeous anyway - but the thing is, on principle, he should've kept his hair as long or as dyed as he wanted and made time to care about it if he wanted to._ _

__Fernando has become a slave of Hollywood. He's going to be stinking rich by the time his movie makes it to the theaters, but sometimes Daniel wonders if he'll still be alive at all. More importantly, he wonders if they'll still be together by then._ _

__The mere thought of it brings an odd taste to his mouth, makes his entire body shudder in apprehension. They were living the dream when Daniel moved to the United States so that they would spend more time together. Fernando's job had taken him there and so it was Daniel's obligation to be supportive, just like Fernando had been when he had to go to Denmark, and Norway, and Sweden, and France, and Belgium, and Germany, and then Japan and Korea and China and Australia and New York, and then back to fucking Liverpool because there were so many people interested in having his work hanging on their galleries that he simply couldn't handle it anymore. Fernando held his hand through every flight and kissed him to sleep every time he felt home-sick._ _

__Now, it's his turn to be the perfect good boyfriend. Except instead of making him late night snacks or giving him neck massages when he felt stiff from spending so much time perched over his computer or even reminding him to _live_ every once in a while, Daniel keep fighting Fernando. And Fernando fights back, fiercely._ _

__Fernando's like a bomb that hasn't detonated yet, always hanging just short of it. Daniel sleeps alone at night, Fernando sleeps alone during the day and they barely exchange two words to each other. The last time they had sex was a fortnight ago, and it was by far the worst sex they've ever had. They did it because they had to, because they were both exhausted and in need of relief, so they fucked, but they barely kissed, barely touched each other except for the extremely needed. When they came, they turned each to their own side and went to sleep. It was awful._ _

__His meeting with Steve got him thinking. Not in a million years did he expect to find Steve in one of his exhibitions. Daniel sent him invitations to every single one of them, but never heard anything back, not even a rude 'Stop fucking sending me those things'. To be honest, after a while he convinced himself that it was better this way. He wasn't sure how Steve would react, if it would be a problem for him and his partner. Xabi told him not to bother. _'He's not gonna show up, Daniel. We never even talk about you anymore. Finns has moved on completely, your story with him is dead and buried. You should let it go._ ' And of course it made perfect sense, except it never really felt _buried_ to Daniel._ _

__Steve will always be a huge part of his life. The things he said - how thankful he is, how he could never really rest without a proper apology - it was all true. All those years, all those miles between them, and he never forgot. The pain he inflicted on that man made Daniel want to be a better person. It made him grow in a sad and terrifying way. He never wants to see anyone else suffering because of something he's done the way Steve did back then. The sight of him broken from the inside out, his head wrapped in gauze and his lips swollen from a punch or two - it was the stuff on which Daniel's nightmares fed on for weeks after._ _

__In a manner, things worked out for the best, he guesses. Steve found someone else, someone _better_ , a doctor, and he's happy. Probably happier than they could've ever been had they stayed together, somehow. But Dan would still prefer if things had been different. If he hadn't been such a jerk. Steve never deserved that. He deserves to be happy. And Daniel's so glad that he is. So much so he probably can't even describe it. Just seeing him, how well he looks - so handsome and healthy and perfect - makes his heart warm. All these years he wanted nothing but to make sure that Steve was happy. And it just wasn't the same thing with Xabi telling him that yes, he's happy, yes, he loves his boyfriend, yes, his boyfriend is mad about him, yes, Daniel, stop asking! _ _

__Now he knows for sure. He can rest._ _

__Only seeing Steve again made him think about Fernando as well. About the beginning, about how he almost lost him and his life simply didn't make any sense without Fernando in it anymore. For months there Daniel wandered around completely lost, like a blind man trying to find his way in the dark. Until Fernando came back and lit everything up again._ _

__One week ago, after a particularly nasty fight, Daniel packed his things and went to the airport without even saying anything. Fernando called him once, Dan didn't pick up and so his boyfriend didn't try again. He's got no idea where he is, or even when he's going back, and Daniel thought 'Good'. Maybe that's what they needed. Sometime apart to figure out how they still feel about each other. If being together is really what they want._ _

__And the truth is, Daniel had no idea what the answer was right about until he met Steve. The moment they parted ways, Daniel rushed back to Nick and Simon's place, where he was staying, packed everything up and went back to the airport, overtaken by a desperate need to see Fernando, to be with him - and also an indescribable fear that his boyfriend would've realized he feels differently about their relationship after that entire week._ _

__He wonders how Fernando will receive him. If he'll be mad at him for leaving, if they'll have yet another fight. Hell, this is their first real crisis. They can't succumb to the first obstacle they find. This is momentary - Fernando's stressed out, there's a lot of pressure involved, but as soon as this is over and the script is done, he'll get better. They'll get better. Things will go back to normal._ _

__Or will they?_ _

__It's the wee hours by the time he gets home. He is completely knackered after such a long flight. The flat is very dark and very quiet. Fernando should be up, he thinks, and for a moment Daniel wonders if Fernando's left the place as well. A new ripple of uncertainty runs through him. He starts feeling sick in a way that he can't possibly handle._ _

__What the fuck will he do if Fernando left him?_ _

__Jesus Christ. All that bullshit about making sure he would never hurt anyone the way he hurt Steve and yet he just walked out of the flat like he was walking out of Fernando's life, not a single word about where the hell he was going._ _

__He crashes down on the couch, hands covering his face. "Shit," Daniel mutters to himself. Fuck, what if he's with someone else? That Juan guy who works for the studio - Daniel hates the guy. He's always making eyes at Fernando, sending him little notes and text messages and swearing to God that they need to spend more time together than Daniel knows they really have to. Fernando says they're just friends, that Juan is a sweet guy who's helping him adjust to life in Hollywood - ' _And if it wasn't for him, I probably wouldn't even be here'i >'. Juan has been the theme of many of their fights. And now he's given the bastard the perfect opportunity on a fucking silver platter. Fernando is alone, upset, confused, hurt and Juan is _just there_ to offer him a shoulder to cry on.__ _

___"Welcome back." Daniel's murderous thoughts are abruptly interrupted by Fernando's soft, husky voice. He's standing by the corridor, arms crossed. Dan can barely see him in the darkness, only half of his face dimly lit by the light coming in from the street. He looks as though he's made of marble, exhaustion and seriousness carving hard, deep lines on his impassive features._ _ _

___He lets out a breath he had been holding since he boarded the plane back home. "Fernando," he says, his heart drumming away inside his chest. "You're home."_ _ _

___"I was in the bedroom," Fernando says. His voice sounds velvety and coarse; he was either sleeping or crying. Daniel hopes it's the first. "Where did you go?"_ _ _

___"Liverpool," Dan says. "I stayed with Nick and Simon."_ _ _

___"Hm." He notices Fernando's looking away now, down. "Figured that's where you were."_ _ _

___"I'm sorry, Nando." Daniel stands up at last, approaching him tentatively. "I'm sorry I left."_ _ _

___"You had your reasons."_ _ _

___"No. I had no reason. I was angry, but I shouldn't have gone. I should've stayed right here and worked things out with you. We should've been working things out for a long time now instead of walking out on each other." Dan reaches out and touches the side of Fernando's face, feels as his body stiffens momentarily before he relaxes into the touch, closing his eyes and breathing out wearily. He looks so tired, his poor boyfriend; the dark shades under his eyes telling of his erratic sleeping habits. Dan touches his lower lip with his thumb and Fernando places a soft kiss on his finger._ _ _

___"I've been insufferable," he says. "I don't know how you managed to stay for so long."_ _ _

___"I love you." Daniel's voice has an easy and practiced flow to it, like it's the most natural thing in the world. It seems to light something behind Fernando's eyes, a flame that had been long dimmed. Daniel missed that sparkle more than he can put into words. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here, with you."_ _ _

___"Even if I get unbearable again?"_ _ _

___"Even then."_ _ _

___"If I get so stressed out that the only tone of voice I have is yelling?"_ _ _

___"I'm gonna yell right back you, but even then."_ _ _

___"If I deny you sex for a month?"_ _ _

___Daniel opens his mouth to repeat 'even then' but snaps it back shut. "Well, that we're gonna have to discuss."_ _ _

___Fernando's laughter connects to some chord leading straight to Daniel's heart. It's the first time in weeks that he hears his boyfriend laughing. Dan takes the opportunity to pull the Spaniard closer and cover his mouth with his own, closing his arms tightly around his waist. Fernando meekly permits himself to be manipulated, parting his lips to Dan's questing tongue, and then kisses back._ _ _

___When they part, Dan keeps his forehead glued to Fernando's, enjoying the feeling of his ragged breath so close._ _ _

___And then, before the idea has even registered in his brain, as though words were coming out on their accord, Daniel says, "We should get married."_ _ _

___Fernando pushes himself away gently, enough to look him in the eye, completely baffled. "What?"_ _ _

___"Yeah. We should get married. We've been together for long enough."_ _ _

___"You want to get married?"_ _ _

___"Yes."_ _ _

___"Why?"_ _ _

___Dan shrugs. "Do I need to have a reason? I love you, I want to marry you. That's why."_ _ _

___"We have never spoken about marriage. Ever."_ _ _

___"So?"_ _ _

___"So I never thought that's something you wanted to do. No offense, Dan, but you don't strike me as the marriage type."_ _ _

___He almost protests, but decided not to because Fernando is, in fact, right. He isn't. And the possibility had truthfully never crossed his mind before tonight either. He remembers discussing that a few times with Steve back in the day, only to have his then boyfriend shuddering in horror at the thought. Dan used to think that meant they were a perfect match, but he was wrong about that, wasn't he? So maybe he's wrong about the whole do-not-get-married thing altogether._ _ _

___It's not about the tradition or whether you fit the profile or not. At some point, you just feel like you need to take a step further, you need something to make your relationship even more solid than it already is, you need to show everyone how happy you are and you need to pay a tribute to your own love. And that's why people still get married in today's world. Marriage has absolutely no other meaning nowadays than love. It's not sacred anymore, it's not unbreakable, the 'till-death-do-us-part thing is no longer a promise. The only thing left is love. You marry someone because you love them and you want to make them yours and make yourself theirs, forever if possible, or at least for as long as you can._ _ _

___It's all there is. Love._ _ _

___"Is that a no then?" he asks._ _ _

___"No, it's not - I didn't say _no_ , I just - Well, I wasn't expecting that. You just fled to another country 'cause you couldn't stand to be around me anymore, I didn't think you would - Are you sure of that?"_ _ _

___Daniel laughs. "Yes, I'm fucking sure of that. We don't have to marry _now_. We can wait until you're done with your script and your movie is out. But one day. I'd like to marry you one day, whenever you think is best."_ _ _

___"God," Fernando shakes his head in mock-disapproval. "That's the worst marriage proposal I have ever heard of. Whenever you think its best. What the hell is that?"_ _ _

___"Shut up, will you?" Dan places a loud smack on his lips. "Yes or no?"_ _ _

___Fernando takes a deep breath, then shrugs. "Yeah. I'd like to marry you too, one day, whenever it's best."_ _ _

___Daniel smothers Fernando with kisses, on his cheeks, chin, nose, forehead, mouth - everywhere. The other man laughs and turns his face from one side to the other, trying to escape the attack, but not really._ _ _

___"No one ever comes out as a whore if they end up marrying the person they stole," Fernando says, seemingly out of nowhere, with a clever smile on his face. "I might have to marry you for that reason alone."_ _ _

___"Where the hell did you get that from?"_ _ _

___"Finns - or your Steve," he answers, matter-of-factly._ _ _

___Daniel's breath hitches. "Steve?"_ _ _

___"Yeah. He said that once. Not to me, he was talking to Xabi, but they were telling me about how Xabi met Stevie. Actually it was one of the first things Finns said, I had just met him. I was already seeing you, but had no idea who he was in the grand scheme of things." Fernando stops, his eyes vague, thinking back on years before. "I didn't even know I still remembered that. It's ironic, isn't it?"_ _ _

___"Ironic is one way to put it," Daniel says, eyes flickering away momentarily. He considers telling Fernando about his meeting with Steve for a whole two seconds before deciding against it. Fernando may not understand, or he might feel threatened, or maybe think that Dan has proposed only to match Steve somehow. It's probably better if he doesn't know._ _ _

___"Would it seem too much like bragging if I send him an e-mail to tell him I'm not a whore after all? I've been a whore for five years, but since we're getting married -"_ _ _

___"You would come out like a total whore if you did that."_ _ _

___"Probably. But it was his words, not mine."_ _ _

___"How about we just don't think about Steve?" Daniel pulls him back into a kiss, hoping to shut Fernando up, and he gladly complies. The Dane purrs as he feels his boyfriend's hands combing through his hair, pulling on a few strands, his hips thrusting insistently forward._ _ _

___On the back of his mind, though, he's still doing the opposite of what he just said. He's thinking about Steve and how his _well-shagged face_ made Daniel remember of happiness in its purest form. Like back when Steve first let him stay the night after they met, or when they woke up together and he convinced Steve to be fifteen minutes late for work just so they could cuddle and rest for a while longer. Like the way he feels right now, with Fernando in his arms, no fight or argument in their horizon, just as it should be. Daniel doesn't think he would've gone back home so fast if he hadn't ran into Steve, and he can be glad for that now more than just because he'd been waiting for that moment to happen for years. _ _ _

___He's gonna need to paint Steve something else - not an apology this time, a thank you._ _ _

___ _

___x-x-x-x_ _ _

___ _

___**Six months later...** _ _ _

___There's a soft knock on the door and Finns knows it's Stevie even before he pokes his head in and says, "Finns? Are you ready? Everyone is waiting." He knew Stevie would be showing up any minute now. He just hoped it'd take him a while longer._ _ _

___Finns is not ready yet._ _ _

___He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath. He's done and undone the knot on his tie a billion times and it looks absolutely perfect, absolutely faultless. The best Windsor knot in history. Yet he cannot get that suffocating feeling to stop._ _ _

___"Did you hear me?" Stevie speaks again, stepping inside the room now._ _ _

___"Yes," Finns replies, curtly. "I'm not deaf, just... Give me a minute," he says, staring at his own reflection in the floor length mirror. Finns is painting the perfect picture of elegance in his light grey three piece suit. It was made especially for him by his family's tailor in Ireland. He looks handsome. Handsome and trapped. Handsome and breathless. Handsome and about to strip out of those clothes and jump out the window._ _ _

___"What are you doing?" Stevie asks._ _ _

___"I'm getting ready." The words sound half-hearted even to his own ears. When the door clicks closed, he knows Stevie's heard the implicit doubt there too._ _ _

___It takes a couple of seconds for the inevitable question to come, a hint of apprehension behind it. "Are you ok?" Stevie asks._ _ _

___Finns loosens up his tie, then pulls it back into place again. "Yeah."_ _ _

___"You don't seem ok."_ _ _

___"I'm... nervous."_ _ _

___Stevie laughs softly and joins him by the mirror, pulling his friend closer in a half-embrace, admiring their reflection for a moment. They do look good, Finns has to admit. Stevie's dark blue suit fits him so perfectly it's as though the fabric was sewn onto his body. What else can you expect, when the man's married to Mr. Perfect Suits?_ _ _

___Finns idly wonders what their twenty years old selves would think of this moment - crinkles around their eyes, grey hair starting to make way, both wearing rings around their fingers. He has a strong feeling Young Stephen would thump him on the head and run away screaming. Not very far from what Present Stephen is very tempted to do._ _ _

___"That's adorable," Stevie says. "Stephen Finnan nervous. I think the last time I saw you this jittery was when you had your first date with Harry. Remember? When you called from a restaurant bathroom begging me to go rescue you while he waited outside for dessert?"_ _ _

___Finns rolls his eyes while Stevie laughs. Not his finest moment and definitely not the best of memories to be bringing back now. "Why do you have to remember that now?"_ _ _

___"Are you kidding me? That story is going to be part of my toast. You, trying to escape through the window 'cause you didn't want to go home with the man you're about to marry? That's A+ material for wedding toasts. I have an obligation as your best man to share that story."_ _ _

___Finns turns to his friend with a half-annoyed look on his face, trying to disguise the part of him that is inches away from losing it in much less reputable ways. "Really? You've known me for a billion years and the story you choose to mention is the absolute worst you have on me? And you consider yourself my friend?"_ _ _

___Stevie snorts derisively. "That's not the worst story I have on you, not by _far_. Besides, it's an anecdote. It's funny 'cause you didn't want to go home with him, and now you're marrying him."_ _ _

___"It's also wrong. It's not that I didn't want to go home with him. I did, I just... Couldn't."_ _ _

___"Right. 'Cause you couldn't get it up," Stevie says. "Still funny. Funnier, if I dare say."_ _ _

___"Oh, yes. 'Cause I'd been admitted to a hospital after getting beat up and my temporary impotence was the result of post-traumatic disorder. _Hilarious_."_ _ _

___The grin on Stevie's face dies out faster than Starks on Game of Thrones as he drops his arm from his friend's shoulder. “Why do you have to be such a downer? Now I'm gonna have to think of something else. Thank you, Stephen, you just ruined my toast."_ _ _

___"It would've been a horrible toast."_ _ _

___That tie just _doesn't look right_._ _ _

___Finns moves away from the mirror, paces nervously around the hotel room as he goes back to fiddling with the tie, followed closely by Stevie's burning gaze. There just doesn't seem to be a single safe spot to hide. Suddenly that jumping out the window idea starts to sound appealing again._ _ _

___"All right, you're being totally irritating right now," Stevie says after a moment, walking up to his friend and stopping him with a hand on his shoulder and another on his arm to turn him around. Stevie slaps Finns' hand away from the tie and starts working on it himself. "What's up?"_ _ _

___"Nothing," is Finns' knee-jerk response, received by Stevie with an unconvinced pout. "The tie," he tries again._ _ _

___"Tie looks perfect," he says, taking a step back to admire his work. Finns' hands immediately start to move up towards his neck again, almost as though out of their own will. Stevie grabs his wrists and holds his arms down as he offers a pointed look that says _'I know you're freaking out, you dumbfuck'_ and also _'I'm here'_. Finns concentrates on his best friend's baby blues - the same baby blues he once fell in love with and that has kept him in love, albeit in different ways, for over fifteen years now - and finds a measure of comfort there. Stevie _is_ safety. He's always been. _ _ _

___If anyone's going to be of any help right now, that'll be him. Or that's the best - possibly the only - silver lining he's got to hold on to at the moment. If not... Well, then, Finns is pretty screwed._ _ _

___"I'm having a hard time picturing what's about to happen," he admits. "I can't... See myself getting married. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."_ _ _

___"What do you mean, you don't know what you're supposed to do? You get outside, you walk to the front, you read your vows - which I hope you remembered to write - and then you say yes."_ _ _

___"You make it sound like it's nothing."_ _ _

___"It's not nothing, but it's not rocket science either," Stevie shrugs._ _ _

___There's something very déjà vu about all this. A few years ago, it was Stevie having a panic attack and threatening to flee his wedding ceremony and Finns forcing him down onto a chair and lecturing him on how he was about to ruin his life forever. Back then, Finns could've never imagined that it would be him wearing Stevie's panicked groom shoes one day, both because he didn't think he'd ever get married and because he used to believe he was too collected to have a mental breakdown of that magnitude._ _ _

___Oh, how the world turns..._ _ _

___Finns snorts, shaking his head at the irony of the situation. "Do you know what really _is_ funny? _You_ telling _me_ that."_ _ _

___It takes Stevie a second too long to comprehend what his friend is on about, and when he does, it's almost like he was suddenly stroke by a bolt. Stevie becomes stiff, his eyes widen in something akin to shock, worry written on every line of his body. "Finns, you're not... Are you having second thoughts?" he questions, sounding more than a little bit afraid of the answer he might get._ _ _

___"It's not that," Finns says, flailing for the right words. That's the difficult part, he thinks, explaining the crazy myriad of absurdities crossing his mind since he woke up this morning, the morning of his wedding day. He's tried very hard to put it into words, if anything than to make some sense out if for his own benefit. So far, he's failed miserably. "Harry and I live together already, so it's not like things are going to change just because we're married. But... I don't know, maybe some things should change."_ _ _

___"What things?"_ _ _

___"I come from a very catholic family."_ _ _

___"And?"_ _ _

___"And marriage means something to us. It's not just a ceremony. It's... more."_ _ _

___"Since when have you been religious, Finns? You never once went to a church since the day I met you."_ _ _

___"Not being religious doesn't mean I don't believe in stuff. And it has nothing to do with religion, it's about... Significance. It has to mean something, committing your life to someone else like this. Otherwise it doesn't make sense."_ _ _

___"It means something. It means _everything_."_ _ _

___"Right. And that's... Kind of a scary thought."_ _ _

___"So you _are_ getting cold feet," Stevie says, not as a question._ _ _

___Finns flaps down on the foot of the bed, rubs his face with the palm of his hands._ _ _

___He thought he was past the hard part when he said yes to Harry, after long and tortuous seven days. There was an apology and a full-explanation of why he'd been so hesitant to go along with his answer - which, much to his relief, Harry wholeheartedly accepted, no hard feelings whatsoever. What could possibly be harder than that?_ _ _

___Convincing his mother that he would most definitely _not_ be marrying in a castle wasn't exactly a piece-of-cake, to be honest. It took some long telephone conversations and some bargaining. Mrs. Finnan can be harder to crack than some judges Finns knows. Once they were over that part, everything flew seamlessly, minus an embarrassing incident involving his father. Mr. Finnan felt he had to open his heart to his future son-in-law and confessed to Harry that he was already losing hope that his _man-eater_ of a son would ever settle down for a good boy - and then proceeded to tell stories about Finns' time in boarding school (some of which he had no idea how his parents ever got to find out), that one time Finns hooked up with his older brother's best friend and that _scary_ tattooed _Norwegian_ he dated a few years back. Finns considered swiftly going to the library to fetch the gun he knew his father kept on his study (which he one time used to play a drinking game of Russian Roulette with a _friend_ ; by the time it became obvious that there were no bullets in the gun, they were both already too drunk and too naked to care - good thing his father never found out about _that_ story) and shooting himself in the head. Harry, on the other hand, was _thrilled_ and still hasn't dropped the man-eater thing._ _ _

___Personal humiliations aside, Finns was happier than ever in the months that followed the proposal. Obviously, he didn't think it through, or that mist of confusion wouldn't be clouding his judgment today. He doesn't understand why he's still choking on this idea. He should be _fine_._ _ _

___"It's not cold feet," he explains, looking down at his own hands. "I don't think it is, anyway. It's not being married to Harry that's doing my head in. It's... I never thought I'd get married, so I guess I didn't prepare myself properly for this moment. I can't see me as a married man. I keep thinking that I'm going to screw things up or that I won't be good enough as a husband and I'm trying to figure out what I really should feel like, what i should change about the way I do things and the way I see things as a married man and I can't. I don't know how." He looks up at Stevie, a silent plea in his eyes. "I'm afraid I'll be a huge disappointment and then he'll go and find someone better, which is usually how it goes with me."_ _ _

___"Oh, Stephen... That again? How many times am I gonna have to tell you that's complete bollocks before you start believing me?" Stevie gets down in front of him so that they are roughly on the same level, shakes his head at his friend as though he can't decide whether he's too dumb or simply endearing. "Let me tell you a thing about how my day's been. I woke up this morning and I thought to myself - this is not a good day for me. I had cold feet before coming here myself. It's not easy watching you marry someone else, Finns. You're my best friend. You know how possessive I am, I get jealous, and today feels like a day when I'll lose a huge chunk of your heart to someone else. Officially, anyway."_ _ _

___"Stevie -"_ _ _

___"No, let me. I know it wasn't easy for you on my wedding day either. This thing that we have, I don't know how to call it - it's very peculiar and no one else understands, I know Xabi's only learned to accept it. But it makes sense to us. I didn't realize it back then how hard it had been for you, but I do know. I thought I'd just be happy for you, but I'm not. I am happy, of course. But I'm also jealous. And a big part of that is because - well... Harry is... A better person than me."_ _ _

___Finns shakes his head with vehemence, and starts to offer a retort, but Stevie stops him by raising a palm in front of his face._ _ _

___"Will you just listen? I'm not done yet. As I was saying... Harry is smarter than me, funnier than me, more easy-going than me. Even my husband seems to have a crush on him." He speaks this part around an eye-roll, and Finns has to crack a smile at that. Xabi's made a joke or two about how he'd like to steal Finns' boyfriend if he didn't think that pattern would start to look bad on him. Finns thinks it's funny, Stevie thinks it's _inappropriate_. "I should hate his guts. But I don't. I love him. Because he loves _you_. He loves you so fucking much, Finns, it's written all over his face. He couldn't hide it if he tried. You know better than anyone that I am the hardest judge anyone could ever have. I've given you a hard time with your boyfriends your whole life. But the only thing I've ever had on Harry is the fact he's better than me. I mean, even his jokes - I used to think I was the funny one in our bunch, you know, I was the Chandler, but that guy... He has the perfect timing for every comment, it's annoying. And then I realized... That's not really a bad thing that he's better than me. It's actually good, because he's gonna get you, and I want someone good enough to get you. This... Being ready to marry or not, that's bollocks, Finns. It just makes you nervous, but it doesn't really matter. I tell you this from experience: at the end of the day all that matters is if you want to be with the person. Now, if you tell me that you're not sure you want to be with Harry, I'm gonna have to talk you into it - but if you _still_ don't think you want to be with him after I present my case, I'm gonna be here for you 100%, even though I'll think you're a moron. So... Do you want to be with him?"_ _ _

___Finns studies Stevie's expectant face for a spell, feeling an immense love for his best friend growing from the bottom of his stomach, where there was this tight knot just a second before, irradiating outwards until it turns into a smile - a genuine and open one. He leans over, forehead to forehead with Stevie, and whispers. "I love you."_ _ _

___"I'll take that as a yes," Stevie replies, chuckling._ _ _

___"Yes," he says, pulling back. "That's a yes."_ _ _

___"Good. 'Cause I'm glad to be giving you away today," Stevie says, standing back up and pulling Finns with him. "He's a great guy. And he's going to make you very happy. I wouldn't be here today if I didn't think that was true. I'd be somewhere else, striking."_ _ _

___"Give me away? What are you, my father?"_ _ _

___"No. I'm much more important." Stevie winks, and then fixes his suit and tie once more. "Are you still nervous?"_ _ _

___"A little."_ _ _

___"A little is good."_ _ _

___"Stevie?"_ _ _

___"Hmm?"_ _ _

___"Thank you," Finns says, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers together, giving Stevie's hand a tight squeeze._ _ _

___"I owed you a big one. Eight years ago you saved me from making the worst mistake of my life. I'm only reattributing the favor. Now. They really were starting to get worried, we should go before they become convinced there is something wrong."_ _ _

___"Let me get my phone."_ _ _

___Finns walks back to the nightstand and collects his mobile. Before turning it off, he sees a message from an unknown number._ _ _

____Bet Attitude would love to write a story on Liverpool's out and proud hottest big shot lawyer. ;) Hope you have the best wedding day ever. D._ _ _ _

___The smile that breaks onto Finns' face then is entirely different from the one he offered Stevie a second ago, but just as fond and just as grateful. Daniel ended up playing a bit part in Stephen's decision to say yes. If it wasn't for that night at the gallery, he might've never come to terms with his own feelings, or might've simply been too late. Not that he'll ever tell anyone about it - not Harry, not Daniel, and especially not Stevie. But, deep inside, he knows he'll be eternally in debt with the Dane._ _ _

___"Seriously? Texting before your wedding? Who the fuck's texting you now?" Stevie asks, snapping him out of his thoughts._ _ _

___"No one," he says, replying a quick _Thank you_ before turning the phone off and housing it on the inside pocket of his jacket._ _ _

___x-x-x_ _ _

___When they reach the lobby, Harry and Xabi are both there, the former with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels and quite clearly making an effort to not look troubled._ _ _

___"Oh, thank God," Xabi says. "What took you so long?"_ _ _

___"Finns had problems with his tie," Stevie says, moving up to his husband and placing a kiss on his cheek that said _Shut up_._ _ _

___Harry joins his soon-to-be husband, a relieved smile on his perfectly shaved face. "Hi," he says. "Glad you're here. I thought you'd finally escaped through the window."_ _ _

___"You know about that?" Finns asks, all indignation, already turning to find Stevie's guilty face._ _ _

___Instead of apologizing, however, what his friend says is, "Why are your jokes so good?"_ _ _

___Harry laughs. "Years of practice."_ _ _

___Finns shakes his head and decides to ignore the outrage at the betrayal - for now. Stevie swore to him he'd never tell Harry about that. What a backstabbing bitch._ _ _

___"I'm sorry I was late," he offers, low enough that only Harry can hear him._ _ _

___"Is everything ok?" the Australian asks, a comforting hand caressing Finns' forearm._ _ _

___"Yeah," he responds, and means it, smiling._ _ _

___"Do you still want to get married?"_ _ _

___"What kind of question is that?"_ _ _

___"I don't know. It's better to ask that now than after the ceremony, is it not?"_ _ _

___"That's awful, Harry. What would you do if I said no?"_ _ _

___"I don't know," he shrugs. "I didn't think that far. It would be bad. We spent a lot of money and there are a lot of people waiting. My sister came from Australia just for this. Wait - does that mean you don't want to get married?"_ _ _

___Finns sighs. "You know, your jokes aren't really that good."_ _ _

___"Stevie would've laughed, Maybe I should marry him," Harry offers, cheeky grin on his handsome face. Finns looks at his boyfriend - _husband_ , because that's what he's about to become, and it's best that he starts getting used to it now - so dapper and handsome in a dark grey suit, so ready to commit his life to someone else, not a hint of doubt or anxiety on his face. It makes him a little ashamed of his _tiny_ panic before, at his lack of faith in the love he feels for the other man. One look at Harry and it's all gone. Finns likes that man in the exact same way he likes wine and corporate law - in the kind of way he can't help and doesn't really want to try. _ _ _

___He _wants_ Harry, craves for his attention, for the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his body. Finns desires him in a way that you don't generally desire someone you've been sleeping with for more than five years. Whatever happens to them in the next few months or years, whether they end up together forever or not, right now, marrying him could never be a mistake; in this day and in this time, Steve Finnan loves Harry Kewell more than life itself._ _ _

___"Do _you_ still want to get married?" he asks._ _ _

___"Never been surer of anything in my life."_ _ _

___Finns slams his mouth against Harry's, an ill-considered move, perhaps, as Stevie made sure to remind him ( _"Oy, save it for after the wedding!"_ and _"You're not supposed to kiss the groom yet, Finns"_ "), but just as necessary as his next breath._ _ _

___"Well, then," he says, finally breaking away. "Let's go get married."_ _ _

___ _

___**The End** _ _ _


End file.
